


The London Ward

by gallifreyanpanicmoon



Category: Mary Poppins (1964), Mary Poppins - All Media Types, Mary Poppins - P. L. Travers
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, F/M, London, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-03-08 12:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 33,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3208733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyanpanicmoon/pseuds/gallifreyanpanicmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>7 years after Mary Poppins' visit, the Banks children have grown up to see their world torn apart in almighty war. It is June 1917, Jane is now 17 and working as a nurse, Michael 14 but eager to fight for his country. When London is bombed and the two siblings rescued by a familiar stranger, the Banks realise their world needs all the hope it can get. But where is Mary Poppins now?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this on Fanfiction.net but, as I have put more effort in this fic than any other I have done, I felt it deserved to be on this website. I have been writing it and publishing it on ff.net for nearly two years, but I want to expand its audience. The prose is not the best I have written (there is a significant shift from my earlier writing days to now), but the idea is something I love and I love writing about. I really hope you enjoy it and your feedback will be much appreciated.

Prologue 

A music box sits in the corner of a room. It turns as it hums a familiar tune. A little hand turns it at a gentle pace. She smiles at her brother as the pair of them sing their favourite lullaby. Suddenly, a friendly hand halts the little girl. She turns to her beaming friend who holds a thick white snow globe in her palm. The pair of them listen to the tale yet again.

...

The children both walk through the busy streets. Their kite has run off and they embark to find it before the wind claims it as her own. They kick up their feet as they push through the crowd. A tall, gangly man stands with a drum on his back and an accordion in his hands. His face is bright in a radiant smile. Through their excitable panic, his soft, familiar voice hums to them:

_Wind's in the east, mist coming in,_

_Like something is brewing, about to begin._

_Can't put me finger on what lies in store,_

_But I feel what's to happen, all happened before._

"Jane, Jane!"

Jane Banks awoke with a start. Her ears throbbed at the sound of Ellen, rapping on her door. Her reality began to settle in around her as she recalled the new arrangements of her present life. Tilting her head slightly, she looked through her window. Past the giant cross taped against the glass, she observed the peak of sunlight coming up from over the horizon.

...

Chapter 1

Ellen entered holding a candle and Jane's freshly ironed uniform. "If you please, Jane, you did ask me to wake you at this hour."

Her voice was thick and heavy and pounded in Jane's tired ears. She gently brushed a few stray hairs from her eyes and attempted to sit up. "Of course, Ellen, thank you."

"I'm sure it'll be a right tough day for you," she told her as she placed her uniform on her chair, "paper says there's a new lot just arrived from the front."

Jane sighed and nodded understandingly. "I'm not surprised," she said. "Thank you, Ellen."

Ellen left and Jane sat in her bed, thinking about what she had just envisioned. There was something strange and nostalgic about her dreams lately. Seven years at least had passed since her adored nanny had left her. Though her thoughts, when making difficult decisions, had often strayed to the wise words of her elder, it had been a great many years since she had been in need of her presence. While she and her brother had each been blessed with the fortune their nanny had brought them, she was now grown up and in no need for the same guidance she had once required as a little girl. Mary Poppins was off doing what she has always done – helping families to help themselves – and while she could see no reason she would be in need of Mary now, something strange told her that she needed her more than ever.

London, 1917. Times were harder than history has seen them yet. The whole world was at war with itself, but not like any other war seen before. It was once known that war was strictly political – a real gentleman's business both on and off the battlefield. Now, fear and terror invaded every home and every soul as the real battlefield appeared in the homes left behind.

Jane hastily climbed out of bed and pulled on her tunic, fastened her apron and, after brushing her hair, tied her cap neatly around her head. This was no time for floating tea parties on ceilings or adventures in the lands of chalk drawings. The world was in a pit, lower than Dante's hell. There was no time for the silly wonders of her childhood. All she could do now was help where she could. Only then could people see hope.

...

Michael had been up for hours. By the dim gas lamp in his room, he had been flicking his way through another book he had managed to get of a  _friend_. It taught him everything he needed to know – how to stand, how to walk, how to handle each delicate item – it gave him a list of tests to do for himself. He had tried each one individually in private, and succeeded. He had even managed to fib his way to the doctor, just to be sure that this was all possible.

Ellen's footsteps echoed in the corridor. He shut the book and shoved it under his pillow so no one would raise even the slightest suspicion at his behaviour. Ellen came in with his clothes.

"And how are we this morning, Michael?"

"The same old," he replied, bluntly.

Ellen dusted his coat which was hanging on his wardrobe door. "The master's waiting down stairs if you want to speak to him now." He tried to silence a groan; he knew this had been coming. "Have you given it any thought yet?" She asked him. "No one's saying you have to."

"Well of course I've given it some thought and my answer is still no," he told her, simply.

Ellen sighed. "I knew it would be like this, and I'll be honest I don't want you to go."

"And I don't want to leave either!" He protested. "I'm not a child! I am fourteen and I have just as much right to stay as Jane has. I suppose it's because she's actually doing something to help–"

"We are all doing our little bit, Michael. Goodness knows this bloody war has gotten closer to home than I think anyone might have imagined."  
"But you don't understand," he told her. "I  _want_  to do my bit! That's why I've stayed! I want to help, the way a man should! I'm sick of sitting on my arse and–"

"Michael! Do be civil!"

"I want to make everyone proud." He told her finally. Then, hesitating, he added "I want to make father proud."

Ellen sighed and came to turn off the gas lamp. "Michael," she told him, "if you think that sticking round till you can join the army is going to make your family proud, then you've seriously got to rethink your outlook."

He sighed in annoyance.

"Just because you don't want to be no fancy pants banker like your father doesn't mean he's not going to be proud of you. And it especially doesn't make you any less of a man. A true man finds what he does – whatever that may be – and he does what he does, and he does it bloody well!" She told him.

Michael was stubborn, but even he couldn't suppress a smile at the maid's words. "Thank you, Ellen," he said honestly.

She nodded proudly. "But mind you, do me a favour and never so much as mention how vile me language is around you. The master would have a field day."

Michael smirked, "I don't think it will matter too much, so long as you don't speak that way to Jane."

Ellen winked at him. "Mum's the word then?" she asked him. Michael nodded.

...

The clock downstairs chimed eight times as Jane hurriedly made her way downstairs. Her father sat, as he did every morning, in his business attire with his brief case by his feet and  _The Times_  in his hands. Jane tried to be a little merry. "Good morning, father," she said, brightly. He looked over his paper and smiled at his daughter. Some of her nervousness subsided.

George Banks was a practical man, who tolerated nothing but precision, order and traditional propriety. Though well acquainted with the idea of change, working in finance, he was yet a stubborn man and disliked to be challenged in his principals which were not easily altered. He loved his children, but he had always struggled to acknowledge his role as a father. Some years ago, he was well educated by a remarkable woman whose influence on his children and his family remained unforgotten by all who lived under his roof. Now, however, times had changed. His  _children_  had changed. As they had grown up, they had adopted a sense of initiative common among adolescent persons. Through such change, he remained determined in his original role as a father and found it difficult to trust his children in not only their new lives as young adults, but their daring endeavours in a society twisted by war and modern principals.

"You're in for a rough day," he told her, his eyes still on the article he was reading. "Another lot of them have arrived just this morning."

"So Ellen told me," she replied. He sighed deeply, his eyes still fixed on the page. He was trying to avoid her, Jane sensed. He still hadn't come round.

There was nothing Jane could do to be useful that her father would approve of; nursing was the closest thing she could get. With the great changes times had brought, Mr Banks remained reluctant to let go of tradition. The war had been a calling for women to stand up and work the nation while their boys worked the battlefield. Jane was quick to be amongst it. Finally, a chance to do something real, to actually make a difference – it's what her mother had worked for her whole life. Anything was certainly better than sitting round to be objectified by every gentleman, sleaze, but either way, every  _man_  she encountered.

She had wanted to go to the factories, seen the machines and learnt how they work. A far greater experience than what any school or governess could have taught her. But she knew she was out of her wits. Her father would never allow it, not even for Michael – he was much too  _English_  for that. She had remained in high hopes for a while – he had married her mother after all. And even though he never fully approved of her means of expressing her ideologies, he had admired her courage and her resilience.

The death of her mother had broken all of their hearts. It was supposed to be just another rally in town. She had promised Mr Banks she would be home that night – she wouldn't do anything stupid. According to witnesses, she had not done anything stupid. Like all the women there, she protested to give women their voice. When a great fight broke out, she had happened to be in the path of two oncoming men. No one saw what happened, the next thing they knew was she was bleeding from the head. By the time she had reached the hospital, nothing more could be done.

Jane guessed her father was scared. He had lost his wife; he did not want to lose his daughter as well. While his stubbornness had always infuriated her, she remained somewhat understanding of the struggle it must be for him. The idea of nursing seemed to have come across a little better to him, so she settled on that. She always admired her mother, but she was cautious to speak out and do her bit through other means.

"It was a great blast, so it seems," he told her. "It doesn't sound too good."

She sighed heavily. "I am fully aware of that, father," she told him, flatly.

He folded up his paper and placed it on the table."Are you sure you want to be doing this?" He asked her, sternly. "I'm sure the ward can wait a while and you can employ your time a bit–"

"War doesn't wait for anyone," she told him. "You of all people know that."

...

At half past eight, she left the house. The walk to the hospital wasn't long and she enjoyed it none the less. She felt a sheer delight in walking the streets of London alone. In her uniform, she was official and respectable and didn't need a chaperone. People of every kind – men, women, adults and children – would see her as a good, strong person. She was a nurse. She was helping the people and helping her country. No one would so much as think ill of her.

She arrived just as Big Ben announced the ninth hour. She looked on as large trucks began to arrive carrying a good number of battered and shaken men, all in appalling states. She hung up her coat in the staffroom and after checking her schedule, headed to the ward. This was going to be a full day.

The new group were all being wheeled in. Some blinded behind bandages, others lying unconscious on stretchers. She often wondered, looking at them, what sort of a world she lived in where innocent men were being treated thus. She wondered about the Germans who had done this, and the other things these men had done to the Germans. How must their hospital look? Was it really all that different?

She got to work putting new patients to bed and carefully copying their details and symptoms. She glanced up from her clipboard and saw a group of lieutenants talking by the door. One of them stood there stern and cold. His hair was dark but his eyes were a piercing blue. It was like a splash of impossible colour jumping from a black and white film. His face was too familiar and yet Jane couldn't place it. In fact, she was almost certain she had seen it rather recently. But it couldn't be a face she had seen in real life. It was almost as though he was from a dream.

There was something else, a sort of emptiness in his face, like he was missing something. The men she knew seldom smiled, the war had stripped the world of its brightest smiles, but this man particularly seemed really lost without a smile.

She tried to place a smile on his face in her mind, but it was impossible. War had torn any remote thought of happiness from the conscience of all persons. Suddenly, one of the lieutenants said a joke – or he must have said something amusing, because the very man, for a split second, tweaked his lips into an honest smile.

Jane gasped and almost dropped the clip board she was holding. A rush of memories filled her mind as she knew exactly who this man was. His smile was indeed dreamlike – because she  _had_  seen it in a dream. It was the smile of the very man who sang to them. Long ago, when she was ten years old, that day her kite had run away.


	2. Chapter 2

Michael gathered his possessions – his books, his watch and the couple of hundred pounds he had saved from the paper deliveries he'd made over the course of the year. He hadn't dared to tell his father about it, nor what he had been doing with his summer. He told everyone he was remaining deep in his books, ready to go to boarding school in the autumn. They had talked a great deal about evacuating him, even if he still wanted to study before going to school. But he told them he wasn't quite ready to leave. This was not true of course. He had been ready to leave since the war began. Now he was planning his departure once and for all.

He clasped his satchel shut and quickly put on his coat. He knew Ellen had noticed the dirt it had picked up, despite his assurance that he had been house bound all summer. Michael quietly slipped out of his room and went down the servants' stairs to avoid confrontation in the parlour. He slipped through the kitchen, after ensuring the cook wasn't there, and hurried along the street.

London had been completely transformed by the war. The buildings had been lined with sacks, concealing their ornamented fronts. Trucks and other ugly cars cruised the streets, instead of the gorgeous carriages one used to see. London had always been dirty, but its culture and economy had often concealed most of its ugliness. Now, it was on display for the world to see. Instead of the usual policemen who stood on street corners in their helmets, soldiers stood heavily armed and alert. Soldiers were everywhere. You couldn't look in a single direction without encountering the British Army. Despite the many disruptions to the English way of life, England had yet become more English with the growing loyalty to King and Country.

He headed west. Running through the streets, frequently checking his watch to make sure he was on schedule. Coats were always necessary in London, even in the summer. The winds were strong, dust picked up and, if anything, people used their coats to keep their garments from suffering. The wind was in the east. It blew in his face as he paced on. Checking his watch, he began to jog. He passed the public hospital, glad that Jane had not yet left when he had. He ducked down the next alley to find him, right on time.

Anyone who might have passed Michael that morning could have asked him where he was headed so early. The boy had prepared one simple response: "to meet a friend". Jock had been a good friend indeed the past month. The two of them had been acquainted at school, but after the war really began to influence the young boys, Jock soon became Michael's ticket out.

Jock was almost a head taller than Michael and looked beyond his years. He was still a few weeks away from his fourteenth birthday, but he was already shaving weekly and taller than most of their classmates. He was wearing a smart hat and a thick overcoat, despite the warmer climate. The only way Michael knew it was him was by his school shoes which he wore because he did not yet have business shoes to make him look some years older. Michael supposed no one would really bother to look at his feet, with his height and face. War burned up a lot of money; he could make up an obvious explanation.

Jock looked up and gave his friend a smirk. "Hope I'm not too obvious then."

"Your shoes," Michael told him, "without them you'd look another ten years older."

"I can imagine," he remarked. "I'll borrow dad's old ones for the interview, he won't miss them."

Michael nodded. Jock moved closer and began to speak more softly.

"Did you bring it?" he asked sternly. Michael hurriedly dug in his satchel for the money he had earned. He handed to Jock who counted it quickly. Then, he placed it in his tick jacket pocket and pulled out a thick envelope addressed to Michael.

"I haven't seen it yet," Jock explained. "Open it now, so we can make sure it's all fine. I don't want you to get ripped off."

"Thanks," Michael told him. The envelope was rather heavy. Michael wondered if maybe it felt heavier than it actually was because of the burden it carried with it. He quickly cut it open and pulled out, freshly made, a handsomely bound passport.

It certainly looked real. There was not an inch of it which might appear suspicious, let alone detect it as a forgery. Michael wondered if that's why it had cost so much. He flipped it open to the first page.

A rather excellent version of himself stared back from the postage stamp image in the corner. He had got Ellen to do his hair especially to ensure he looked much older. Not that she really knew what the photograph was for; he had told her it was for boarding school. Below read the following:

Name: Banks, Michael George

Nationality: English

Date of Birth: 21 March 1899

He looked up at Jock who exhaled deeply. "It's the real deal, isn't it?"

Michael nodded. "I didn't think it would be so... so... well, so  _real_."  
"Neither," Jock admitted. "I just hope mine's just as good," he confessed. "It's coming next week and there's not much time. If all goes well, we can then go enlist together."

Michael nodded. He really didn't know what to say. What he was holding changed everything he knew about himself. He was now four years older than he had been that morning. Four fictional years which were entirely for him to write. He didn't have to wait for school or anything else for that matter. He had just sped up time.

Thirty pounds well spent. Time really  _was_  money.

Jock placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "We really are doing this, aren't we?" He said. Michael breathed nervously. "I didn't think it would get this far," he admitted.

"You're not going to back out now?!" Jock protested.

"Don't be daft!" Michael exclaimed. "I'm ready to get out of here! I'm ready to see the world, I'm ready to fight and I'm ready to make my family proud, whatever happens out there!"

Jock grinned widely. "It's going to happen," he said happily. "It's really going to happen."

"If your passport doesn't arrive," Michael told him, "telephone me directly. Otherwise, we'll meet at the town hall next Saturday as planned."

Jock nodded.

"I had better go home," Michael said checking his watch. "Before everyone gets suspicious."

"I should be getting back too," Jock agreed. "My parents think I've gone to the library."

Michael held out his hand to his friend. "Thank you," he said, "I couldn't have done this without you."

Jock clasped it tightly and smirked down at him. "Nor I without you."

With that, Jock tipped his hat to Michael and strolled off down the alley.


	3. Chapter 3

Jane made great haste in her work that morning but her thoughts were indeed elsewhere. Though she was sure she knew that smile anywhere, she wanted to be certain. Of course, it had been years since she had seen him, she hadn't a clue what he looked like now - he probably wouldn't recognise her. The man she had seen had certainly began to age a little himself, but she supposed war made everyone look older – there was a great sense of maturity among people as ignorance was always first to be slaughtered.

The officers left the ward, heading down the corridor presumably to discuss future plans for their sick and wounded. With every lot that were sent off to the front, a greater number ended up here, and plenty more with their maker. It truly was a horrid system, Jane thought, but what else could be done? She followed them out into the corridor, her eyes not leaving the crowd for a second, her gaze fixed particularly upon the man in question. They had assembled themselves with one of the doctors and were keeping their voices low. He was just on the edge of the group; she would be able to get his attention without disrupting the rest of them. She inhaled deeply and was about to walk towards them when–

"Miss Jane Banks!" A girl a head shorter and a year younger than her stepped right in her path. "Don't you have a ward to attend to?"

"Good morning to you too, Harriet," she said, tonelessly. "I have done my duties and thought I might speak to the doctor about some procedures for the new comers." This was partially true, there were a couple of cases in her ward she needed checked, but she had been curious to meet this familiar stranger.

"What do you think I am, a fool?" Harriet protested in her thick Yorkshire accent. She glared at Jane darkly. "Get your eyes of their arses. They're here to work and recover, don't mess with them."

"I could actually say the same for you," Jane said coolly in response. "Don't think the whole hospital doesn't know about you and Lieutenant Stanford. It's been all the talk, what you two have been up to.  _You_  might want to be careful, I'm sure the British Army doesn't want a scandal."

Harriet struck a finger out at Jane's face. "What I do in me own time is my own business."

"As is mine," Jane replied. "Now, if you'll excuse me." She brushed past Harriet and walked on down the hall. The group of officers and the doctor were gone.

...

She finished early that day. For the first time, it was still broad daylight by the time she had to head home. She walked through the streets again, thinking about the man she saw. Could it really have been him? She considered how long it had been. She didn't think she had seen him since well before the war. All these years and not a single word, yet now? The war had done that to people – they would disappear for years and then turn up in the most absurd places.

Her thoughts turned back to her old nanny. She remembered how the pair of them had been. Even as a little girl, she could see the two were thick as thieves. She remembered, one Tuesday, when her nanny had her day off, Michael had asked her a very strange question.

"What do you reckon she does on these days?"

The little Jane had turned to her brother bewildered. "What on earth do you mean?"

"Mary Poppins!" He told her. "She's a nanny! She's always looking after children. What would she do on her day off?"

Jane sat there puzzled, but now curious. "I don't know," she admitted. "But I suppose it's none of our business."

"Do you think she sees Bert?" Michael asked, grinning.

"Maybe," Jane said, "I mean, they're friends. When mother or father aren't working, they often meet with friends."

"I meant  _see_ -see Bert."

Jane looked at him, further puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Oh come on!" Michael protested. "You can tell how much they like each other!"

"Bert and Mary?  _Together_?" Jane exclaimed, "whatever brought you to think  _that_?"

"Look at them Jane!" Michael said, "it's  _so_  obvious!"  
"Even if that  _were_  the case, Michael," she told him, "might I remind you,  _again_ , that it's absolutely none of our business!"

She made him swear never to mention the subject again, but she remained forever curious. After their dreadful conversation, Jane had watched the behaviour of her nanny and their friend. Being a little girl, she had never thought about what two people being in love meant. She had often looked at her parents and wondered how much they loved each other – they were married, it must surely be a lot. But she hadn't known how things worked  _before_  people were married. How did you know you were in love, or that someone loved you? How did you tell when it happens?

She walked on and smiled at her folly, her former innocence often brought her mild amusement. It reminded her of a time when the whole world was just as innocent – innocent to all the bad it was seeing now. Considering this former friend she hoped she had seen today struck some very puzzling questions as she walked: What had happened to them now? Were they still friends? Were they married even? Or had something happened to tear them apart? War had a way of tearing people apart whilst uniting others.

A piercing siren broke her thoughts as the people in the streets began hurrying away. There had been a couple of air raids in London. While she was sure she was safe where she was, she thought she had better hurry home. It was only a couple of streets away, she would be fine. She picked up her skirt as she began to jog through the streets. People rushed past her, almost knocking her over, but she was determined to get home.

An almighty crack echoed in the sky. The people gasped and everyone began to run. Jane remained calm but picked up her pace as she bolted round the next corner, heading down Cherry Tree Lane. She reached her gate, hidden behind the piles of brown sacks. The front door was open and she burst right in before anyone could make a fuss.

"Oh Jane! Thank goodness!" Ellen came out of the parlour to meet her. "Hurry now! Never mind all of that! In the shelter! Now!"

The pair of them hurried out the back door. At the back of the small yard, they had installed a small shelter. The cook was waiting inside as Ellen hustled Jane through the door.

"Father's still at work," she told herself.

"He's a grown man, he can look after himself," Ellen assured her.

"Where's Michael?"Jane asked.

Ellen breathed heavily. "I haven't seen him since this morning," she admitted. "He was upstairs but– He's been so quiet lately and, oh Lord, Jane! Oh heaven and Earth! How could I forget him?"

Jane held the maid's hand. "I'll go and get him. He should have come out himself but he never takes the raids seriously – says he wants to face it like a man."

"Well he's a daft devil," She exclaimed.  
"He's still my brother, Ellen," Jane told her.

"It's dangerous!" The maid gripped Jane's hands.

"I'll be quick."She assured her. "They haven't landed here yet. With any luck this won't be the first time."

"Luck ain't always gonna be hanging round save your arse!" Ellen covered her mouth, realising what she had just said.

Jane gripped her hand more tightly. "That doesn't mean I can't at least try."

Jane smiled at her maid and ran out the shelter door. The sky was turning red and black as she knew part of the city had gone up in smoke. She ran through the back door and pounded up the stairs. Everyone had taken their chances. Prayed for one last chance to make it through the storm, but Jane soon realised she had lost hers. Suddenly, without any warning an almighty blast hit somewhere close on their street. The building shook with almighty force and Jane fell to her knees as her home ignited in flames. The blast continued to ring in her ears, as she was deafened by the explosion. She made a good effort to climb the remaining stairs and found her way along the corridor. "Michael!" She called through the smoke. "MICHAEL!" Her own voiced pounded in her ears as the world around her became inaudible.

She busted into his room where he lay on the floor. She knelt down next to him and felt his pulse. He wasn't dead, but he was completely out cold. She pulled his arms over her shoulders in an attempt to carry him. The smoke grew thick and the flames stronger. She dragged her brother out into the corridor to be met with more smoke flooding her chest.

She fell to the floor, her brother unconscious next to her. The flames grew stronger around her and her skin was burning under the heat. She knew she was going to die. Her vision became a blur of black and red as she cursed herself at her folly. She couldn't save Michael, and she couldn't save herself. All those men at the hospital, all those lives she saved, but not her foolish brother. Through the fog in her eyes she took her last glance of the world. A strange face greeted her through the black and red – its eyes were thick and bold, a grotesque trunk hanging from its mouth. She began the rosary in her head, thinking it to be the face of the devil himself. No, she did her bit, she helped their men. Surely not! The face vanished as the smoke closed in around her eyes. Everything fell to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I understand the scene I depicted reflects more the Blitz in the forties to any of the raids in the first world war. This is realised after I wrote this chapter, but for the sake of the plot, you will have to forgive me for this inaccuracy. Also, at this point, I believe I am still referring to people as Doctor this and such. Later, I change these terms to Sergeant, Major and Matron and such alike so I apologise for any confusion on that part.


	4. Chapter 4

A dull light glowed through her closed lids. As they opened it glowed yellow and flickered through her void gaze. Jane's body was numb from weakness, but nothing hurt so much as her right ear. Every remote sound she heard pounded inside it like exploding grenades and she squinted her eyes tightly at the throbbing pain. A figured leaned over her holding something which touched her ear causing it to sting. The cold, wet texture seemed to gnaw at her like the icy fangs of a tiger in snow.

Jane tried to lean away as the figure continued to handle her wound. Her body betrayed her as she could barely so much as shift her position while the figure continued to prod her ear. He spoke, his words just hounding in her weak ear, but she managed to catch something of them in her other. "It will hurt for a while, but your hearing will restore within a few days."

While his voice burned the ear he was touching, it seemed to hum gently in the other and it was almost oddly familiar. It was definitely a voice she had heard before, but now it sounded tired, as though the greatest moments it had spoken were long gone. Her eyes began to focus correctly and she tilted her head slightly to look upon her caretaker.

His dark hair was slightly messy and if one looked closely, they would see a few strands of grey emerging with coming age. He was an officer. Jane could just make out the tan colour of his uniform and the straps on his shoulders as he leaned over a small bowl of water. His gaze looked down on his task, but Jane could make out that same blue which she had seen in Van Gogh's works during her visits to France. She smiled and immediately knew exactly who he was – not from her curious encounter some hours ago, but rather from the memory of an adored childhood long over but never forgot.

"Bert?"

The gentleman turned to her and smiled, completing the face of the same chimney sweep from all those years ago. "You've grown up very well, Miss Jane Banks."

...

Bert dug through the cupboard under the sink and found a pot and some mugs and began, with the modest materials he had, to make some form of tea. As Jane's vision settled, she began to recognise the interior of her family's bomb shelter. She looked across the room and was thankful to see her brother safe, lying on one of the other bunks. "He's just sleeping," Bert told her. "He wasn't too hurt, not as bad as you anyway." She inhaled deeply in relief, but after the shocking events of the night before, another burning thought suddenly crossed her mind. "Where's my father?"

Bert remained quiet as he did his best to continue his task.

"Bert," Jane said sternly. "Please tell me what you know or I will expect the worst."

The pot began to bubble and he poured the boiled water into a pair of metal mugs, adding tea bags. She tried to sit up a little as he came over and handed her the beverage before sitting down. "I haven't heard anything of him," he said honestly. "But you mustn't worry just yet. The list of the dead has not yet been published, and you can't get ahead before anything is confirmed."

"No, but I should prepare for the worst," Jane told him. "I want to reduce the shock if and when it comes."

"Jane, please–"

"I've only just moved on from the death of my mother. Having to handle–"

"Jane." Bert stopped her, "please let it rest until we know more. Michael is safe, you're safe. Ellen and Mrs Brill are safe. For now, think on that."

She had only just remembered the maid and the cook and, slightly embarrassed, queried Bert as to their whereabouts.

"Inspecting the damage and seeing where they can help. From what I saw of your home, it could have been a lot worse. The main staircase and the servants' quarters seemed to have taken most of the damage. I would suspect some of your possession may be gone, but I think most have been rescued. All I can ask is that you don't think too much about it just now – think about what you still have, rather than what you have lost."

Though aching with concern, she understood.

"I told them I was looking after you here. They'll be round to take you and Michael to the hospital in a few hours before it gets too dark."

"Oh, I'm sure I'll be fine," Jane said, trying to get up, but a wave of pain came over her head and she winced bitterly.

Bert smiled and shook his head. "Lie down, Jane. You won't be any good to anyone unless you help yourself first. As a nurse you should know that."

She reluctantly lay back again, holding her tea in her hands. It was still quite hot but she warmed her palms against the mug and inhaled the substance. The air was cold, despite being a summer evening. War made everything feel cold.

They heard a stir behind them. Michael was still asleep on the other bunk. "He woke up earlier," Bert told her. "Naturally wondering where you were and what had happened. I can assure you he was extremely surprised to see me." Jane laughed a little. Her ear still ached, but this happy reunion seemed to numb the pain a little. "He just wanted to be sure you were alright. I told him I was looking after both of you."

"Thank you," Jane said earnestly. She didn't know how much luck she had left, but whatever it was, she could not be more glad there was enough to have saved Michael when she couldn't.

"You are actually very lucky to be here," Bert remarked. "That was a bold move you did. I could see Michael was inside and was going after him myself. I didn't think I could carry you both out, but I'm glad I did."

"So am I," Jane confessed, gratefully. "I know I should have been much more rational about it, but all my thoughts were of Michael."

"It was understandable," Bert assured her.

Her thoughts flickered back to last night – the flames, the smoke, the heavy blasts, they all replayed in her head like a silent horror film. "It was actually quite terrifying," she admitted. "The flames were blinding and smoke was so thick. I could almost feel my spirit leaving me. My senses were boggled and I could have sworn I saw–" she stopped herself. She wasn't sure she could mention something so horrible, especially to Bert. Not only was it not in any way proper, but she couldn't bear to think about it. And all the while, the more she thought about it, the more real it seemed. She knew it could have easily been an illusion, smoke and trauma have been known to afflict people's senses. And yet, what the past three years had brought still made the possibility seem high. There had been many wars in history before, but only now had the battlefield come to reside in their very homes – only now was there pain and anguish on every corner. What she had seen could have easily been real for all she knew.

"What?" Bert asked curiously. "What do you think you saw?"  
Jane gulped, the frightening vision lingering more clearly in her mind. "I thought I saw the Devil." She admitted.

Bert's expression turned from curiosity to concern.

"It could have been anything!" Jane explained. "I've heard stories at the hospital – patients talking about the visions they saw through blasts and in fire and smoke. They deny many of them to be true. The nature of war alone is enough to meddle with peoples thoughts but I–" she cut herself off again, covering her mouth. She did not try to suppress her tears.

Bert was understanding. While they both knew her visions could only have been hallucinations, he could see she had received quite a shock. Running into a burning house to save her brother was one thing, drowning and being tormented in fire and smoke was another.

"What did it look like?" Bert asked. Jane's face became ghost white. "I only meant that if you describe what you saw then, maybe we can think of what else it could have been."

She nodded. "It was the most awful thing I have ever seen. Its eyes were round and black as bottomless pits – like one of Munch's paintings. But its mouth, oh its mouth!"

"What about its mouth?"

Jane quivered before she managed to say it. "From it hung a thick black serpent."

Bert's eyes widened, but not so much in shock but wonder. "A serpent?" He asked.

"It wasn't real, I know." Jane said, "And I might be exaggerating, but when I saw it, that's how I felt."

"Was the snake like a thick black python?" Bert wondered. Jane nodded.

Bert suddenly looked at his bag behind him and, to Jane's astonishment, smiled. "I know exactly what you saw, Jane," he told her, "and you needn't fear now, because I know for certain it was not the Devil."

He got up off his chair and went to dig into his bag. "When I came in to get you last night, I put this on to protect me from the smoke."  
He came back over to her holding a horribly ugly, but none the less, a very practical object in his hands.

"A gas mask?" Jane asked, her fear leaving her.

Bert smiled and nodded.

Tears of relief flooded Jane's eyes as she giggled at her folly. She lay her pillow and laughed heartedly. "Oh how ridiculous of me!" She beamed. Bert chuckled as well. "I've seen them plenty of times at work. I know how to use them, how did I not think of that?!"  
Their laughs were amplified in the small space as they almost forgot Michael was still sleeping. Quieting themselves down, they continued to talk with more optimism. "So, a nurse then?" He asked. Jane smiled modestly. "It seems the little Miss Jane Banks I once knew is not so little anymore."

She smirked at his words. "Seven years is longer than it feels, for sure."

"From what I've heard you're very good. The doctors are very impressed with your work. Many of the men have told me how well you have helped them."

"Thank you," Jane smiled. "You don't brush up too bad yourself, a soldier and all."

"I'm actually not a soldier," he informed her. "I'm a doctor."  
"Heavens!" Jane cried in pleasant surprise. "Congratulations, I guess. I had wondered why you of all people were at the hospital. I guess that's why it took me so long to recognise you. War changes people in the strangest ways."

Bert nodded in agreement. "Yes, it certainly brings out the best and worst in people."

"What made you become a doctor?" Jane asked curiously. "Or, I guess, what has happened to you all these years generally? Even before the war. I don't think I've seen you since Mary Poppins left us."

It was the first time in seven years that either of the two had heard that name spoken aloud. They halted their voices for a moment and dwelt on it. They had been fortunately reunited and were now making amends and catching up on years gone by. But where was the other member of their party? Her absence had never been quite as painful to either of them as this moment. What seemed most bitter about it was that they knew that neither knew of her whereabouts or what may have happened to her.

"Well," Bert tried to continue, "that's quite interesting. Naturally, I have always lived a modest lifestyle. You could say I was almost at the bottom of–"

"And yet more of a gentleman than any wealthy suitor I have ever met."

He smirked, embarrassed at her praise, especially coming from someone in her own social-economic position. "I just think that kindness is more important than anything in a person," he explained. "Which is why when they were taking on recruits for the war office, I latched right on. It had nothing to do with making a better name for myself – I just wanted to help people, because it's what I've always done."

"And what you're so good at," Jane remarked, "although they stomped your accent right out of you."

Bert laughed. "I was becoming a doctor; I had and still have to appear serious in some respect."

"You speak very well," she observed, "but I miss your old voice."

He smiled. "You're too kind," he said, "but I really haven't changed all that much."

"You're right," she smiled. "War has turned all of us on our heads, but what I think it does, more so than change people, is embellish their true natures, revealing who they really are. In that, it reveals who are the real heroes in this world. And while you might be a medical doctor now, the kindness you show is that which you've always had – you're still that same kind old chimney sweep underneath all that, and that's a good thing."

"I wouldn't go so far as to say you're still that same little girl."

"No," Jane agreed, sipping her tea. "But in some ways, I hold to that childish delight in life – it's the sort of spirit people need these days and I don't know where I'll ever find it again."

They smiled and drank their tea as they pondered silently on those years gone past. She had been reluctant to admit it before, but now she really had come to understand. There was no point in shutting out her past as though it was no longer relevant. Granted, those happy days singing of merry things and a glimpse of what magic there was in the world were long gone, torn away by almighty war. And yet, it was only now that Jane truly realised how precious their memory remained.

How the world had changed – how they themselves had changed. It was certainly much simpler and easier all those years ago. Jane suspected that as she had grown up, the world had with her. All the innocence and happiness that once was could no longer be sought in that same fashion. The world had matured as had its people, and whatever way the war took it, human kind would never again be as it once was. Times were very hard indeed. There was no point denying it. But Jane knew that that sort of joy and optimism was vital not just for her, but for everyone in this time. She wished so desperately she could share her by gone joys with people, to somehow support them as her memories did for her, but she was ignorant to how. None the less, the world needed something to help them, something to lift their spirits. Or perhaps, more accurately,  _someone_.


	5. Chapter 5

By seven o'clock, a team of doctors was with them and Jane and Michael finally emerged to look at their house for the first time since the blast. Michael was shocked, Jane wanted to cry but told herself that they were luckier than most. It was fixable – most of the damage had been taken to the front and the main stairway. But she didn't know what would come with her father missing and her own income very modest. Bert had removed some of their belongings from the house – whatever he could find. Their coats had only been slightly singed – they had been put up in the back hall by Ellen. Grateful, Jane put hers on as dusk began to bring a cool change. While her heart ached, her head remained strong. They really had been lucky.

Ellen and Mrs Brill had removed their few belongings from the house and placed them in a couple of suitcases. Jane came over to them both and embraced them. "What will happen now?" She asked. Ellen gave her a tough smile. "You're father's a strong one, I'm sure he'll be alright."

"No, I mean to you two."

"We'll go down to the shelters," Mrs Brill explained. "They'll be needing someone to feed everyone."

Jane nodded and couldn't suppress the small tears forming in her eyes.

"Now, Jane," Ellen said, patting her. "They've hit us hard, alright. But we're English, and we'll stomp them any day!"

Jane laughed through her tears. "Where did you get your tough spirit?" She asked in amazement.

Ellen smiled. "Years of experience, love," she told her. "But you've every right to fret right now, just don't let it go to your head. You're strong Jane and I'm sure they'll be needing you soon as you're better."

She hugged her maid quickly and thanked Mrs Brill for everything the pair of them had done as Bert came over to lead them to the truck. It was a great green vessel with a bloody red cross blazed on either side, almost glowing against the murky brown and grey of the scene around it. They climbed into the back, sitting cautiously on the floor. Jane was told to lie down, but she insisted on sitting up to have a proper sight of the newly damaged London. As they drove, despite the continuing pounding in the side of her head, Jane watched the road behind them acknowledging every last piece of her beloved city they passed.

As they drove away from number 17, Jane took a good look at the place which for years had been their home. She was right in thinking they had been lucky. While their house still stood, however weakly, the best of Cherry Tree Lane was now amidst great piles of rock. As the truck rounded the corner, Jane quietly thanked God for what little she still had.

London was famous for its fog, particularly at dawn and dusk. But it wasn't the fog that clouded the streets that evening. Thick black smoke from fires still burning soiled the clouds overhead while a cold wind tossed ashes and rubble around in the line of sight. The city was transformed. What was once a thriving metropolis, even in the midst of war, was now an inferno.

Shops, museums, post offices, all gone up in smoke. She wondered about the numerous priceless artefacts lost in the blaze, along with the priceless words of loved ones which would never be read by their recipients. All the memories of the world preserved for centuries gone – their last link to this world destroyed and lost in the ghastly black fog. Despite her own involvement, the reality of the war had not really hit her until her home had become the battlefield.

The truck halted at an intersection and Jane looked out again, this time observing a young boy accompanied by an officer in the wreckage of an old house. She looked at his face as the little boy's skin grew pale with grief at the sight of something buried beneath the rubble. She could only guess it was a body. Her heart dropped in her chest at the very thought. Her breath caught in her throat and tears began to roll down her cheeks again as she felt his innocence as he witnessed something no child should. She had seen many dead bodies in her time at the hospital, but none of her experiences were remotely as bad as seeing death through the eyes of that child. Children are not meant to be acquainted with death. As the truck moved on and Jane watched, through each individual street and path, as her beloved city mourned itself.

Their journey felt like hours, though only twenty minutes had gone when they arrived at the London Public Hospital. It had attained not even a scratch from the blast. Jane wondered if it was the Germans or God who thought London should at least have its health aid. The jolted to a truck stop, Michael stirred as he had slept most of the journey. Bert got to his feet and offered a hand to Jane. Very carefully, she climbed to her feet as her head immediately began to spin. Another officer took her hand and guided her up the set of stairs into the main hallway of the hospital.

Through her clouded vision, she saw them all. Not soldiers, innocent civilians helping themselves into different rooms accompanied by nurses with clip boards, their white aprons shining in the dim light against the dirt-covered Londoners fresh from the blasts. She too was still in her uniform though her hair had come loose and she looked less like a working nurse than a civilian, but her presence and clothes caused a few people to turn a glance. A small group of children congregated around a nurse who was giving them clean pyjamas to get into. Another nurse stood by holding a little boy in her arms. His little fingers gripped at the red cross on her arm like a crucifix; looking for something to pray to.

She was guided to a slightly less crowded ward – as a member of staff, she was given priorities. Not out of sentiment, but rather because getting her better sooner meant that she would benefit to other patients. Bert came in shortly after as her doctor to attend to her wounds briefly.

"They will be fine," he assured her. "What you really need to do though, is rest."

Jane nodded but stopped when the sensation began to hurt her blindingly. "When do you think I can work again?" She asked.

"Not for a few days," Bert told her. "You need to let your eardrum settle again and that will take the most time."

"I get the feeling there were a number of nurses who ended up like me today," Jane acknowledged. "Or worse."

"Try not to think about that right now," Bert told her. "There are lots of things we still don't know about today. For tonight, just focus on yourself. You will find yourself more useful if you look after yourself first and then help others."

She smiled and nodded slightly to show she understood.

...

Bert left the ward and continued down the packed corridor to help the few staff members assist the swarm of victims, patients and refugees.

"Doctor Alfred," a voice called behind him. He turned and met the hospital's head doctor, Doctor Miles Anderson. "Yes sir?" Bert replied.

"We have moved all the children into the school hall next door. The staff there have kindly offered space for a children's ward."

"Excellent," Bert smiled. "That will make things easier here."

Dr Anderson nodded. "There is one slight problem," he added as he and Bert walked down the hall to remove themselves from the chaos. "Some of the nurses have been reported missing today." Bert was not surprised at this news. "But more importantly, I just received a wire from the police about the head nurse here."

"Nurse Samson?" Bert asked.

Dr Anderson nodded.

"Has she been hurt as well?"

He looked down regrettably. "Nurse Angela Samson was killed today in the blast."

Bert's eyes widened in shock. "That really is terrible," he acknowledged. "I didn't know her, but I heard there was none better."

"It is shocking and most regrettable," Dr Anderson agreed. "However, it raises another issue. Who will run things around here?"

Bert was speechless at this last realisation. He had only thought of the Banks children for the past five hours, he hadn't even stopped to think about how even the help services themselves would be affected.

"A number of other nurses are injured as well," Dr Anderson observed, "and I can't think of many of the others who would have been quite as capable."

"What will be done?" Bert asked.

"I'll send a wire to the war office tonight but leave you in charge for the next few days" he instructed. "Perhaps one of the convalescent places might have a few spare hands. Hopefully we can get someone in very soon."

Bert nodded in agreement, "I hope so too."


	6. Chapter 6

Doctor Anderson stood by Jane's bed making a last inspection of her ear. The throbbing had stopped and she could almost hear normally. Her headaches hadn't quite subsided but she didn't say anything about it. She knew they would bed her for another three days if she had said anything and she was, after all, a nurse. She knew the symptoms well enough to check herself if her condition worsened. Doctor Anderson told her she could get to work if and when she felt ready which reassured her greatly.

Michael had been worse. He had been in the house much longer than Jane and he was still struggling to stand on his own. He remained in bed but did his best to occupy himself. Jane sat by him this first day as she flicked through the morning paper, scanning the list of the dead and missing, praying to God their father was not among them.

"What will happen?" Michael asked, "if he's–" he tailed off.  
Jane sighed heavily. "We'll worry about it then. Nothing's certain yet." She finished scanning the list of the dead, thanking God that George Banks was not listed among them. Her spirits were very differently affected when she reached the B's in the Missing column.

"Reported missing?" Michael asked.  
Jane nodded.

He nodded understandingly as he saw Jane become very uneasy. "He might not be dead," he said abruptly. "You said nothing's certain."

"And we can't be certain that he's not buried beneath some rubble either!" Jane exclaimed.

"All you can do is hope." The Banks children turned to see Bert come over to them. "They often say it's best to prepare for the worst, but right now I think we should at least be grateful that there is a chance."

Jane was still unsettled but nodded understandingly.

Michael turned to his bed side table, looking through the limited number of items retrieved from his coat. "Bert?" He asked, "I'm sorry, I know there were lots of things but, did you by some chance find a–"

"Are you referring to this?" Bert asked, pulling from his own white Doctor's coat Michael's slightly dusty but still intact false passport. Michael tried to sit up and take it, but his head ached too much and Bert handed it directly to his sister who opened it to the first page. She read it several times over, her eyes widening in shock.

"I only know one explanation," Bert said sternly, "but I sincerely do hope you can prove me wrong."

Michael held his head up as best he could and said "I'm not ashamed of wanting to fight for my King and country!"

"Michael! How could you be so selfish!" Jane shouted.

" _I'm_  being selfish for wanting to help my country fight evil?" Michael protested. "For wanting to help?"

"What about helping your family?" Jane objected. "How could you say such a thing! And on a day when your father might actually be dead! And what about our mother? Don't you remember what happened to her?"

"Yes I do remember!" Michael exclaimed. "I remember clear as day! And we'll all remember her because she died fighting for something she believed in!"

"I can tell you, we'll all remember you for much longer if you don't go off getting yourself killed now," Bert interjected. "Michael, I know your intentions are good, but not every young boy who goes to the trenches comes back a war hero – very few come back at all."

"Michael you forget what it is I have been doing all this time!" Jane shot at him. "I have seen these men. I have stitched their wounds, I have heard their stories. You don't know a thing about what's happening there!"

"I think we've talked enough about this," Bert interrupted. "Michael needs rest."  
Jane sighed angrily and handed him Michael's passport. "I think we can leave this with Michael," Bert said. "With any luck, he'll report for his medical and they'll turn him down because of his head's condition."

"Oh what's the point? You're obviously not going to let me now that you know," Michael scoffed.

"I'll have extra duties now with the new patients," Jane said getting up.

"Well you're one to talk," Michael shot at her. Jane looked at him bewildered. "You're hardly a debutant yet they still call you a nurse."

Jane rolled her eyes and folded her arms. "What's your problem?" She asked briskly. "It's not like I'm going to get myself killed."

"My problem is you're not even eighteen and they somehow think you're ready to be a nurse. They can't have simply done it. Someone must have said or done something."

Jane glared at her brother. "I might be young, but I earned my position."

"With help, surely," Michael said smugly. "Father clearly aims to please you more because you're his  _daughter_. The word of a successful Banker would have been enough to convince them, even if she's not quite mature."

Jane raised her palm abruptly but Bert caught it. "That is quite enough," he said to both of them. "Jane has plenty of work to do. Michael, get some rest." Michael reluctantly lay back down and Jane flicked her gaze away from her brother and stormed off out of the ward.

Jane went directly to the main staff room to the head office but soon noticed Bert right behind her. "Are we supposed to call you Doctor Alfred now?" She asked smirking. Bert smiled and caught up to her. "You don't have to," he confirmed. "But, might I have a word?"

They walked down the hall to the staff room, which was currently empty and closed the door. Bert looked at her, slightly ashamed. "You've worked very hard Jane and you definitely earned this position on your own," he began. "But, I hate to say that Michael is right."

"You think I didn't know that?" Jane smirked but made sure not to meet his eye. "I didn't expect them to take me on so young. Of course it was father's word–"

"But that's just it, it wasn't your father's word," Bert interrupted. "I'm surprised you would have had that impression, seeing he's been so against you."

Jane looked at him puzzled. "Bert, what do you mean?"

"It was me," he admitted. "I put the word in for you."

Jane gazed at him. "But..." she hesitated, the fact was it was utterly unbelievable. "Why? I haven't seen you until now, how did you know I even–"

"I saw your application," he told her. "When they were taking on the new recruits at the academy. They all said you were much too young, but I said I knew you, and I knew you were capable."

"But why would you do that? I'm not the little girl I once was, and you hadn't seen me since then." Bert avoided Jane's eye as she pondered on it. "Does this have something to do with Mary Poppins?" She asked.

"It may have something to do with Mary Poppins, yes," he told her. "She loved you, you know? Michael and you."

Jane shook her head. "She  _cared_  about us, but she never loved us. What would happen to her if she loved all the children she said good bye to? She said it herself."

Bert nodded, "and that's just it. She loved you, she might have said good bye, but she didn't leave you, really. You were very lucky, Jane. She loved you both sincerely."

"Bert," Jane began slowly. "When was the last time you saw her? Or spoke to her? If she asked you to put that word in for me, why was it?"

"She didn't ask me to put the word in," he told her. "I put it in myself. And that's all I have to say, for now anyway."

Jane was still shaking her head, completely overwhelmed. "I hope I don't sound ungrateful, because I am extremely glad for my job and my position, but –"

"I had faith, Jane," he said sternly. "I  _have_  faith. But it's more than that."

He was cut off as Doctor Anderson entered the staff room. "Ah, Miss Banks. The school next door has offered their hall as extra space, seeing we're clearly running out here after recent events. I've set it up as a children's ward and while your work with the soldiers has been excellent, I was wondering if I might put you in charge there."

"I'm more than happy to," she smiled.

"Good," the doctor exhaled in relief. "Most of the nurses prefer to be with the soldiers, they don't know much about handling children. You have a good temperament, Jane, it's something most of the nurses undervalue."

Jane was astonished at his words, especially on top of what Bert had just told her. "Thank you, doctor," she said a little stunned, "that's very kind."

"I'll walk you both over there now. Doctor Alfred, I think you too should see the new ward."

...

Because children are small, they were able to fit more beds in the hall, catering for the vast number of victims and refugees left abandoned and orphaned after the blast. Despite the vast number of beds, there was not one which did not contain a sleeping or weeping child.

"Some of them are injured," Doctor Anderson explained. "But some of them are more in shock than anything. The young mind is much more fragile, as you know."

"So many of them," Jane acknowledged. "I'm surprised they were all still here. That none of them had left."

"Well, the war is in France," The doctor pointed out. "I don't think anyone thought it would come back here."

"You're right," Jane agreed. "Will they be moved somewhere safer? Away from London?"

"There's no time for that," he told her. "Besides the country places we have are for the soldiers. What we have here are civilians."

"But some of them, if not all, have been just as badly affected." Jane pointed out. "You remember when we sent the boys off. Everyone knew there was a good chance they would not come home. I doubt anyone thought there wouldn't be a home for them to come back to."

"No," the doctor agreed. "No one thought that."

Jane looked over at one bed containing a little girl. She had blondish hair, not unlike her own. There was strong bruising on her cheek and scars on her forehead. A white ribbon remained in her hair, though slightly singed now, like her innocence that was stripped from her the minute the bombs landed.

"Now that they're settled," he explained. "We shouldn't have too many more complications. We'll have a new head nurse sent over in a couple of days. One of the convalescent centres decided to spare her. She was keen to do some real work, so it seems."

"Who is she?" Bert inquired.

"Well I don't remember her name exactly, it was a little funny actually. Apparently she was a nanny before the war, so we won't have to worry about these children."

Both Bert and Jane's eyes widened at his words. Doctor Anderson looked at the pair of them and laughed. "You'd be surprised, nannies have been said to make some of the best nurses. They really understand the job."

"Yes, of course," Bert interjected. "Are you sure you don't remember her name?"

Out of the blue, the double doors opened behind them and a woman stormed into the hall. Her low heels echoed on the wooden floor as she walked briskly over to them. She carried a bag made of carpet in one hand and a jet black umbrella with a parrot's head for a handle in the other. Her mahogany brown hair was slicked back into a neat bun which revealed her piercing blue eyes above a pair of crimson lips lifted into a kind but firm smile. "I do apologise for barging in like this," she said in the matter-a-fact tone which matched her gait and stance. "I was told you needed a nurse urgently and came the moment they called."

Doctor Anderson looked at their in astonishment. Both Bert and Jane were utterly speechless. The doctor broke the silence with an awkward smile. "You're the new head nurse, I presume," he said, his voice still slightly shocked at her confident entrance. "Do forgive me, I am Doctor Miles Anderson and I run this hospital."

She placed the carpet bag on the ground and extended her elegant but firm hand. "Very pleased to meet you, Doctor Anderson. I am Nurse Poppins,  _Mary_  Poppins."


	7. Chapter 7

Bert and Jane were both frozen in disbelief. Jane's mouth almost fell open, but something stopped it – an old habit of not wanting to look like a silly codfish. Mary Poppins' piercing blue eyes suddenly shot in their direction. Jane's stomach dropped as though Mary Poppins could read through her entire soul. Bert's face too had grown pale. Doctor Anderson looked at the pair of them and laughed.

"Do forgive me for not introducing you," he stammered. "This is Doctor Hebert Alfred, and Nurse Jane Banks." Mary Poppins looked them up and down. She looked neither pleased nor shocked when she saw them, but a certain solemnity appeared on her face as she acknowledged them both. "I believe we are already acquainted, doctor," she said softly. Jane opened her mouth, about to respond when Mary spoke again. "But if you will forgive me I've not time for chit chat. We can form a better acquaintance later. There is much to be done. Doctor Anderson, if you would be so obliging." Doctor Anderson nodded and the pair left, Mary Poppins with her usual confident stride, the doctor walking hastily beside her, hurriedly explaining the structure and organisation of their hospital.

Jane and Bert looked at each other. "I don't believe it," Jane said immediately. Bert nodded in agreement. "I–" Jane stammered. Neither could find any words at such a moment. "How?" Jane finally said.

"Well I think we can certainly say war changes everyone," Bert said solemnly. "Even Mary Poppins."

"She sounded very harsh," Jane admitted.

"She's kind but firm, Jane," Bert reminded her.

"No, I mean, I always thought that, should I ever meet her again, she would be pleased to see me at least."

"I doubt it's you that's upset her," Bert assured her. "But it's a terrible time for everyone."

"No, it's not that," Jane began. "Something's not right." Their brief encounter replayed in her mind as she remembered her words, her tone and the look in her eyes at the sight of them. "It's like she's missing something."

"The war has stolen from all of us, Jane," Bert reminded her. "She's been hurt, just like everyone else. But she's still doing what she's always done best – helping other people."

...

"Well Doctor Anderson, you have a fine system here. And with the over inflation of civilians we are receiving, you have taken to compensating very well." The tour had lasted roughly an hour as Doctor Anderson had taken the old nanny through the many wards of the London Public Hospital.

"We're still in need of more staff if we are to provide proper care," Doctor Anderson observed, "but I understand we are quite fortunate, there are only so many available in England at the moment. We've had some excellent volunteers, but after the recent incident, many of those volunteers are now patients."

She nodded in understanding.

"I must ask though," he began. "You mentioned you had met Nurse Banks, and Doctor Alfred."

She grew rather quiet, at the mention of those names. She wondered if they were the only ones – the ones who had known her old self, before the war had robbed her. "I knew Jane when she was a little girl," she admitted. "I was her nanny, in fact."

Doctor Anderson stared.

"Oh don't look so surprised," she smirked. "She can't be older than eighteen. I wonder how she managed to become a nurse at all."

"She volunteered here a great deal at the beginning of the war – I think it was her mother's death that triggered her motivations. Then earlier this year, she asked me if they would accept her to train as a proper nurse. I knew her to be hard working and all, but I knew she was much too young and no matter what I said, they would probably never allow it. The minimum age is, after all twenty-one."

Mary Poppins nodded in full understanding. "There have been exceptions though," she observed.

"None so young as her," Doctor Anderson remarked. "I'm not quite sure how it was managed. There have been a few as young as nineteen, but I have no idea how it happened."

Mary Poppins brow furrowed as she considered the case.

"But I guess none of it matters now," Doctor Anderson said abruptly with a smile. "She's an excellent worker; I dare say one of our best. I would have left her in charge had she been old enough. But again, she's a better practical worker than manager."

"I'm sure," Mary Poppins smiled. "We all have different roles to play."

"Also," the Doctor said slowly. "I understand you are also acquainted with Doctor Alfred?"

Mary's expression altered as the colour in her face grew slightly paler. "Again, before the war," she stammered, quickly. "I knew Doctor Alfred long before he earned that title."

Doctor Anderson looked at her, puzzled. "Before the war," he began, "wasn't Doctor Alfred was a chimney sweeper?"

"Yes," she said very quietly. "Yes, he was."

Doctor Anderson didn't press any further on the subject, but smiled and requested that she move into one of the nurse's dorms and unpack before getting to work.

"I think I might just ask your opinion," he began, trying to change the subject, "I've put Nurse Banks in charge of the children's ward, over at the school. She's capable of cleaning soldiers and such, but I couldn't think of anyone better to handle the children."

Mary Poppins smiled. "Nor can I," she agreed.

...

At twelve o'clock, Jane departed for her lunch break. She walked back over to the hospital from the school and up to the main staff room. She slipped through the door and walked over to the roster, when a figure seated at the table spoke behind her.

"Jane Banks."

She turned very slowly and locked her gaze with her former nanny, who now sat before her as her director. "My, my," she remarked. "The war certainly has changed you." She slowly stood up from her seat, "though not nearly as much as time alone." The pair of them looked at each other. What had once been grown up and child, was now two women. Jane raised her head stiffly in acknowledgement. "Mary Poppins," she began sternly. Her former nanny tilted her head slightly in response, but soon a warm grin appeared on her lips. Jane's face broke as she too laughed and embraced her former nanny.

"Oh Jane!" Mary beamed. "What a woman you've become!"

"You frightened me," Jane admitted. "When you came in, I thought you weren't happy to see me."

"Oh not at all Jane, of course I'm most pleased to see you," Mary smiled. "It was quite a surprise though, I will admit."

"And Bert?"

Mary caught her words and stammered a little, "yes," she admitted, "I dare say I haven't seen Bert since before the war. It's so wonderful to see him. And a doctor at that!"

"I didn't expect it either," Jane admitted, "but I owe him my life now, as does Michael."

Mary looked at the former child slightly puzzled.

"We were caught up in the recent blast," Jane explained. "Luckily not too much damage was taken, but he saved my life.  _Our_  lives."

Mary smirked, "oh Bert. Always putting others before himself."

"Would you like some tea?" Jane offered. "We can talk properly then."

...

The two women sat together and talked about the absent seven years. "So, it was remarkable I got the job," Jane confessed, having just told Mary about her work at the hospital. "Michael was right to criticise me though, but I hope it was all worthwhile."

"I should think it certainly has been," Mary observed. "The soldiers speak highly of you."

Jane smiled modestly. "But what of you?" She said suddenly. "I want to hear what you've been up to!"

"Well the war's hit us all in one way or another, Jane."

"I don't just mean the war. I mean, since you left. Where have you gone, what have you done."

Mary sipped her tea silently. She didn't respond immediately because, in truth, there really was no simple way to answer it. Where she had gone and what she had done. It was all a blur to her. Not because she couldn't remember it but because she had made a good effort not to. The war had tormented her in many ways, but those few years before hand – the thought of them was almost equally painful.

"There's not much to say about before the war," she said matter-a-factly. This wasn't really a lie – there was very little she could say about it all. "But when it came, like you I knew I had to do something. I started in some of the hospitals but eventually went over to France for a bit."

"Goodness, that must have been something," Jane said astonished. She knew Mary had been a nurse, but at the front?

"Well it's certainly something you don't see every day," Mary replied.

"And the children? And nannying?" Jane asked. "Where does that stand for you now?"

Mary suddenly grew very quiet. "I don't think I could go back to that, after all this."

Jane subtly shifted herself to the edge of her seat and leaned in. "What about the children's ward here?" She hinted.

Mary looked up startled.

"Mary Poppins, you're not just about stitching cuts and mending breaks. You  _really_  help people – young and old. You helped me, you helped my father. You showed us the world from all kinds of perspectives."

Mary looked at Jane. Her eyes had begun to sag a little but Jane wasn't sure if that was with age or fatigue.

"You didn't just give us a life, you showed us why life is important – you gave it meaning."

Mary closed her eyes and shook her head quietly. "It's not as simple as that," she said.

"Look at these children." Jane said sternly. "Some of them have lost everything – their homes, their families – they need something to live for. You can give them that!"

"Jane–"

"I thought all these years I must have dreamt it – all those adventures, I told myself they were just games, imaginings! But even though you denied it all those years ago, I know what you did for us, and I know it helped us! When we were sad, you gave us something that lifted our spirits like nothing else! They need that Mary!"  
"I can't," Mary began impatiently.

"But–"

"It's gone, Jane."

Jane looked at her, puzzled. "What?"

"My magic, Jane." She said quietly. "It's all gone – up in smoke with the rest of the world in this wretched war."

Jane blinked in astonishment.

"Once upon a time, I could find it everywhere. Any time, any place, if someone needed a lift I could do it. But there's nothing left to lift with. It's all ashes and rubble."

Jane grew very quiet. Mary looked down into her empty tea cup as freckles of water clung to the base forming an incomplete ring around the bottom.

"And that's why you moved on," Jane deduced. "And became a nurse."

Mary placed her cup on the table and said very quietly "I have to keep moving, Jane. We all do. It's been hard for everyone, you know that. When you lose something very close to you, it's almost as if you lose part of yourself. We've all lost something to the war. But–" she hesitated for a moment, finding the words. "But we all need to keep going."

Jane gazed at her, determined. "That's why you need to help these children. I don't know anyone who would do a better job. These children have lost everything. They're so much more vulnerable than us adults, they'll give up sooner than we will. They've lost all hope; they think the world is dead. They need to learn how to dream again. You taught me that! Teach them how to dream!"

Mary smiled weakly. "Doctor Albert has faith in you," she said. "And so do I."

"You don't understand," Jane pressed. "This is your specialty, your  _gift_  – this is what you're meant to be doing! And I think you might even help yourself."

"Jane," Mary said, sternly, "I'm not the woman I once was."

"Nor am I the little girl I once was," she retorted. "I understand things better now, Mary Poppins, and you helped me to do that."

"Jane, we've all changed, not just because of the war. Time changes everything and everyone. Everything that begins must also end. And that part of my life has come to an end."

One of the nurses came into the room asking Jane to assist her in the children's ward. She nodded in response. When the other nurse turned to leave, Jane stood and looked at Mary in frustration. "Yes, time changes us," she said calmly, "but it does not stop us from remembering who we are."

She stood up taking her cup and crossed to the sink to wash it. As she finished, she turned to leave when Bert entered the staff room.

"Jane, you're needed–"

"Just heading off now," she smiled and left for the children's ward. Bert looked over at the woman seated at the table, her startling blue eyes glittered in the sunlight pouring in from the window. Her face had grown slightly longer since he had seen her last. This he knew to be from age, but also grief.

"Hello Mary," he said gently.

She smiled weakly. "Hello Bert."


	8. Chapter 8

They remained very quiet. It wasn't as though they had nothing to talk about or want to talk about. And it wasn't as though they weren't glad to see the other was alive and well. Beginnings were always difficult. Eventually, they acknowledged each other quietly and with subtle solemnity as Bert pulled up a chair next to her. Where did they start? So much had happened before the war, and even during. Neither of them knew how to act.

"How have you been?" Bert asked.

"Fine," Mary replied stiffly.

"I heard you were in France," he said. "It must have been hard."

"It was hard work," she admitted.

"That's not exactly what I meant."

She looked down at her fingers quietly and said slowly "not as hard as it must have been for you."

Bert looked at her curiously just as her face lost its cold mask to be replaced by sorrow. "You didn't tell them did you?" She said. "About your leg. And why you were sent home."

Bert shook his head. "No," he said. "How did you know? Did you see the limp?"

"No..." she said slowly. "No, I was there, when it happened."

Bert looked at her speechless.

"You were unconscious, so they asked me for permission on your behalf."

"You were there?" He asked in disbelief.

She nodded, her lip trembling.

"But," he stammered, "how?"

"You were transferred. It was a safer environment than some of the hospitals closer to the front. You were unconscious," she explained.

"No," he interjected. "I mean, I knew you were in France but, at the Somme?"

She nodded severely.

"I can only imagine what you must have seen that day," he said honestly.

She shook her head. "I'm sure you saw worse."

Bert placed a hand to his forehead in disbelief. She was at the Somme! Of all places and of all days. He regretted anyone having to endure that day, though not nearly as much as he regretted Mary Poppins having to experience it. "Why did they ask you?" He asked.

Mary shrugged, but then a small tear escaped her eye. "I think they thought I was your wife."

They looked at each other in silence as these words struck many chords in their shared memories. Those years before the war, everything they had endured between them. It was all too much.

"Is that what you told them?" Bert asked. "That you were my wife?"

Mary shook her head. "They didn't ask. They just assumed I was your closest relation."

"Well I haven't got anyone else," he admitted. "How'd they know?"

She closed her eyes as more tears began to form. She quietly wiped at them as she said "I spoke to you. You were unconscious, but I didn't know what was going to happen, so I thought, there were some things I should say. I think they noticed I was quite tender to you."

Bert sat quietly as he recalled the whispers he had heard. Through the blur of the coma, he knew it had been her voice. And as he listened to her speak now, knowing it was not worth repeating, he quietly recollected every word she had said.

"I don't suppose you heard any of it," she laughed. "It was nonsense."

Bert shrugged. "I wouldn't know," he said. "I couldn't hear anything." He decided to let it slip for now. In time, he told himself. He mustn't reopen an old wound, especially a wound in Mary Poppins. Bert took her hand gently and whispered. "Thank you for that. If they hadn't done it, I wouldn't be alive."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry we couldn't save it."

"We don't have control over these things," he told her. "Besides, I've still got my face, my hands. I can still work, that's a lot more than what some of the other blokes can do. When all this is over, many of them won't have a life. Or worse, they will but they won't be able to live it." He was suddenly filled with a gush of remorse and silenced himself. Despite what people thought, he really had been extremely lucky. His wounds weren't visible so people would still love them. The real tragedy was the real heroes. The ones who had really suffered, who had taken the most damage. Though no one intended it, they would be the ones who would not be loved.

"Most of them either don't come home or they come bearing greater scars and losses than what I've endured." He continued. Then, looking her square in the eye he said: "Don't pity me, Mary. I'm one of the lucky ones."

She sat quietly as his words reverberated between them. Normally after someone had told her a story, she would remain silent as a means of respecting their grief – it more often proved effective than trying to comfort a person either physically or verbally. But this time, her silence was less informative and more instinctive. She was simply speechless.

After some time, she voiced a different thought. "What about the raid?" She asked. "You saved the Banks–" she nearly said "children" but corrected her error before it was spoken. "How did you do it, with your leg?"

"By then I was used to it," he explained. "I can practically walk normally now, it just looks like I have a bad knee. But that's not the point." He smiled. "Mary, you know best that when it comes to helping other people, we can do anything."

Her eyes began to swell now. Bert clutched her hand tighter as tears began to run down her cheeks. "It shouldn't have to have been done!" She exclaimed. "None of it! No one should have to go through what you went through. Or any of them for that matter."

Bert nodded solemnly. "Which is why we need to look after them," he said.

She smiled through her tears. There was no bigger heart than that of Hebert Alfred. But a heart that size breaks more easily. It was all she could do to keep herself in her place. It was one thing to show kindness, but to put your heart into everything you did, no. Mary Poppins couldn't afford to do that.

She had before.

She recalled the teary little faces of the then Banks children as their nanny packed her belongings to leave them. Little Jane, whose face had normally borne a radiant smile, said through heavy sobs "Mary Poppins, don't you love us?"

With a sombre look, she had replied "and what, may I ask, would happen to me if I loved all the children I said goodbye to?"

She had said it enough times, to other children, even to fully grown adults. It's not as though she didn't want to love the people she encountered. She simply knew she couldn't. They were good children and it pleased her to see they had grown up so well. But something about that summer really got to her. Like the power of liquor, but leaving the head in full tact to endure the pain it shot to the heart. She knew what it was to love people, there were enough people she loved. But practically perfect people could never permitted sentiment to muddle their thinking.

Bert placed his other hand over hers as he could feel it tremble beneath his palm and spoke in barely more than a whisper. "I've missed you. Despite everything that happened before, I have missed you."

She closed her eyes trying to repress her tears. That summer, that joy. It seemed the last time she had ever been incandescently happy. But what had stabbed her through the whole war was the knowledge that it was not only the children she had had to say goodbye to. She nodded and smiled very weakly. "I've missed you too."


	9. Chapter 9

Jane was uncertain about her decision to go back to work so immediately. Her ear was still recovering from the shock of the bombings and the volume in the children's ward did not help to ease the throbbing. The quieter though not any more peaceful environment of the adult wards would perhaps have been more suitable, but she was aware of her skills and especially of where they were needed most. There were soldiers fighting pain and terror over at the hospital, but a shockingly similar battle was taking place out here.

While many children had been taken in after being found wandering the streets barefoot and alone, there were still an atrocious number of casualties. Tuberculosis was the most common. While the bombs themselves had done much damage, the smoke and particles picked up in the wind did the most damage to young, fragile lungs. There were many broken bones in joints that had barely begun to form and even in some cases much more permanent damage. For a couple of cases, the few steps those children had taken in their very short lives would be the only steps they would ever have taken. While it was horrible that there were innocent men fighting for the quarrels of their leaders, it was perhaps just as grotesque that so pathetic a generation were victims of a conflict they do not yet even have the ability to understand.

She had been working her day shifts in the children's ward. Doctor Anderson had been very particular about giving her night shifts until she was recovered. It was comfortable enough – the school's hall was large and accommodating and had bearable facilities considering nothing would be enough for the number of patients overflowing so small a hospital. The children were good too. Well, to Jane they were. Perhaps because she was younger than the other nurses at work they felt more comfortable around her. But up until then, she had only worked day shifts.

Nights were terrible. While heavy coughing fits from infected lungs saw no rest, it was the amount of tears that was most unsettling. Most of them tried to be quiet about it – the older nurses were more forceful in requesting silence. While the children were, to some regard, trying to be courteous of the numerous other sickly people trying to sleep, their silence was more a thing of pride. In such times, no one wanted to appear defeated, even the children. They would drown their sobs in their pillows, but Jane envied this little privilege as she sat by watching them, fighting her own heartache.

Bedwetting was another big problem. There were only so many beds in the ward and most children were forced to sleep on the floor in such cases. It was not only cruel, especially with the colder weather with autumn dawning, but the children were utterly humiliated by it. Some of the cases were somewhat older than what was considered common which made Jane sure it was all psychological. Fear, it seemed, was contagious and Jane had to be careful she did surrender to her own.

One particular morning, the children were being sent in groups to use the bathrooms over at the hospital. With assistance from the nurses, they were each bathed quickly and able to get through all the children in the ward. But as Jane made her way over to the hospital after having re-made half the beds, one of the nurses came to her immediately with a little girl.

Nurse McIntosh was one of the older Nurses, closer to her sixties than her thirties. But she surprised Jane by respecting her in a professional manner much better than her colleagues. Many of them assumed Jane to be naive due to her age and, perhaps, that Doctor Anderson had a subtle fancy for her that might explain this. But Nurse McIntosh wasn't so foolish.

"Nurse Banks," she called as Jane made her way down the corridor. "She'll not let any of the nurses undress her. She won't say a word neither."

Jane looked at the child and immediately recognised her by the singed white ribbon in her blonde hair.

"I told her not to be embarrassed or nothing'."

"Thank you Nurse McIntosh," Jane smiled. "I'll take the girl."

She brought her into the communal change room where the girls were waiting for the bathrooms and could now able to get a proper look at her. She must have been about seven, but the expression in her eyes was beyond her years. She brought her to a corner of the room where she would perhaps feel less intimidated and quietly asked her "what's your name?"

The girl didn't respond.

"I know some of the nurses are scary," she explained, "but they're not mean. We're here to look after you."

Still the girl said nothing.

"We don't pretend to be your parents," she told her. "But someone has to do these jobs."

"She wanted me ribbon," the girl said quickly.

"Pardon?"

"Me ribbon. She shan't 'ave it! Wants to burn it with all them clothes. She shan't 'ave it!"

Jane glanced up at the singed bow that hung from her tangled tresses. "Did someone special give it to you?" She asked.

The girl nodded. "Me mum," she said softly.

Jane hesitated, unsure whether it was a good idea to stir something so painful for a child, but she finally asked "what happened to your mum?"

The girl breathed deeply and said rather stiffly "the bombs tooked 'er. And me dad."

"I see," Jane said remorsefully. To her surprise, the girl remained very stern for a child so young. Her parents must have been tough people, Jane thought. And judging by her accent, it was likely the girl hadn't had too privileged an upbringing. Jane suspected her parents' death wasn't the first terror she'd had to face.

"I'll tell you what," Jane said. "If you give me your ribbon, I can wash it myself, so it doesn't get mixed up with the other clothes. Then I can cut off the little bit that's burnt – it will be a little bit shorter, but then I can sew a little line on the end and it'll look good as new. Will that be okay with you?"

The girl squinted hard at Jane. She could feel her stare as though it was invading her inner self and she knew the girl was having hard thoughts about whether to trust her. She guessed this was another characteristic of her upbringing. This girl knew not to trust people easily.

"Only you's allowed to touch it," she said, pulling it from her knotted hair.

"No one but me," Jane promised and placed it carefully placing it in her apron pocket.

The little girl then calmly undressed herself as Jane got a towel for her. Most of the children and nurses had left by now which made things easier.

"I'm sorry, what's your name?" Jane asked her as she lead her into the bathroom.

"Meg," she said softly. "Like me mum."

"I'm Nurse Banks," Jane explained. "But if you would like to call me Jane sometimes you may."

"'s alright Nurse," Meg said. "I'll call you Nurse like everyone else. But thank ye." Jane smiled and waited behind the door as Meg bathed herself. It wasn't the normal protocol, but Jane comforted herself in knowing Meg didn't have the severe physical wounds as some of the other children and didn't require as much attention. Besides, she knew with this small sign of respect Meg would grow to trust her a little better. While she remembered how firm Mary Poppins had been when she was a girl, she also remembered the great deal of kindness she bestowed.

She thought about her work over the past year and her new and very different duties with the children. It wasn't like the physical wounds she was healing upstairs. While there were many injured children, many of them were only here with nowhere to go. The children's ward was more a shelter than a hospital. Even with the numerous casualties, the real wounds were of the heart.

She remembered the face Meg had made at her before she had given her the ribbon. She was very clever and knew how to read people, much unlike herself when she was a child. Jane wondered about how she was handling the girl, and how Mary Poppins might have done the job at hand. Well, the Mary Poppins from her childhood anyway.

She remembered their conversation earlier that day. How different she was now! Jane had assumed her change of heart was surely an effect of the war, but to lose her magic! The one thing that made Mary Poppins so wonderful. She could only imagine how painful it must have been and still be. But what was most extraordinary was to think of how it could have possibly happened. She was no expert on such matters (after all, magic did not seem to be something that  _could_  be understood – it wasn't logical after all!), but she suspected that only something truly painful could have done such damage.

Jane didn't know how, but she knew this different Mary Poppins wasn't right. But not only was she not enjoying seeing it, she somehow felt that Mary herself disliked the person she was now. She could feel she wasn't the wonderful person she once was, and that too was most likely causing her a great deal of pain. As Meg returned and Jane helped her dress before accompanying her back to the children's ward, she realised she had another duty. While she was helping these children the way Mary Poppins had helped her, she knew she had another challenge – to help Mary Poppins.


	10. Chapter 10

Michael was gradually beginning to feel more himself. He had been sleeping a fair bit at the doctor's orders and awoke that same day around lunch. He didn't mind that he had missed breakfast as he was feeling better than he had over the past few days.

He managed to sit up and looking around, saw other patients being attended to with their lunch. He watched the nurses and doctors bustle around, handling bandages, jars of medicine and other substances and distributing them to patients. He observed their speed. So brisk yet not a drop was spilt nor an instrument dropped. Michael felt as though he was watching a circus act as they moved so quickly yet so precisely and with such direction.

He envied them. He envied their purpose. They knew what they were doing. They had plenty to do and they were aiding and assisting others as well. They had something to be proud of. He wanted to share that pride with them, but knew that he could not.

A nurse saw he was awake and came over to ask if he might also have some lunch. She informed him that a tray would soon be over along with a Doctor to give him a final inspection. Just as she spoke, another nurse tapped her shoulder.

"Thank you, Nurse McIntosh. See that Mr Banks receives his lunch. Then you can return to the children's ward."

The voice was strangely familiar to Michael. He looked up to see the face if its owner and immediately thought he must have sunk back into one of his dreams.

"Michael Banks," Mary Poppins smiled.

He shook his head in disbelief. "Impossible."

"I think you already know that is not in my vocabulary," she replied, matter-a-factly.

He gaped at her. His mouth hung open slightly without his realising and she laughed at the old habit. "How many times must I tell you that you are not a codfish?"

He sniggered at the old words. "Only once more," he smirked. She laughed.

"I had no idea you were a nurse," he admitted. "When Bert rescued us, we talked about old times, but he never mentioned what you were doing now."

Mary looked down at her palms. "No, I was over in France for some time last year," she began.

"Crikey!" Michael exclaimed.

"But Bert and I haven't crossed paths until now either."

Michael's eyes widened. "Truly? Not at all during the war?"

Mary shook her head.

Michael's eyes widened even more. "It must be fate," he said. "There's no other explanation. This has definitely happened for a reason."

Mary did not doubt his claim. She wholeheartedly agreed with him but for the first time in her life, the workings of fate had made her rather uneasy.

She was not the nanny these children remembered, and they were not the innocent souls she once knew. They had not only grown up, but during a war. They were wise, smart. She was not only frightened because she knew they would inevitably see her for what she had become. She knew Jane already had. She was frightened what fate might have in store for these new encounters. She had never watched children grow up. She had never re-encountered any of the children she had attended to in their adolescence or adulthood. She never knew how they grew up or what had become of them. It was not her job to know. Yet now, the wonderful,  _perfect_ , ending they had seen previously with the Banks was soon to be destroyed. She had already fallen in her own image, in Bert's, and now she feared fate would see her destroyed in the face of the Banks children too. It was almost as if every reflection of the person she once was was nearing its destruction.

"Have you seen Jane?" Michael spoke suddenly. "I'm sure she'd love to see you!"

"I have seen your sister, we have been working a fair bit together," she smiled. "We are in different wings, but I have inspected her work with the children, she is quite a natural."

Michael smiled, but there was some sadness in his look.

"Michael?"  
"Sorry," he said quickly. "We had a falling out the other day. I was angry because she's had the opportunity to work and help the war effort and I've been expected to sit at home learning algebra. So much is happening in the world and I so desperately want to be a part of it. I know I shouldn't, but I do envy her a little."

Mary nodded understandingly. "It is natural and perfectly okay to feel that way, Michael," she began. "But going to France is not the way to go about it."

He started, but she hurriedly assured him. "You're quite forgiven, but I know how you feel. You want to have a purpose. You want to help other people and that is most noble."

He shook his head quietly. "I know it's wrong for me to say this, especially after what people like you and Bert have gone through, but I'm still not ashamed of what I did."

Mary looked sternly. "Very well, Michael. One day, however, you will be grateful you didn't go through with it."

He hung his head, partially in annoyance, but also sorrowful. Not because one did not simply contradict Mary Poppins, but rather he knew it wasn't his place to assume for himself what she knew from firsthand experience.

"I do have an idea that I will have to follow up first," she told him. "Seeing it is the summer holidays and you and Jane won't be going home any time soon, I'm sure there is something you can do around here."

Michael shook his head. "A young boy volunteering with the nurses? I doubt they will let me."

"That's not exactly what I had in mind," she began, just as Nurse McIntosh returned with a meal for Michael accompanied by Bert, who would give him a final check up.

"Nurse Poppins," he said, nodding matter-a-factly. She smiled and tilted her head in response. "It's nice that you've been able to see Michael now." He smiled gingerly as he spoke, not like the broad grin that Michael found to be most familiar with Bert. There was something distant between them, not like before the war and Michael found it distorting.

"I must return to the bottom ward with the new arrivals," Mary replied. "Michael, it's been lovely to see you."

Briskly, Bert began inspecting Michael's wounds to ensure his head injuries had subsided. He watched his former nanny leave the ward, observing as she walked past Bert, exchanging a glance. It was strange to Michael though. It was not the friendly looks the pair once gave each other many years ago. It was remorseful almost. As though they shared a mutual sadness, but Michael couldn't place his finger on it.


	11. Chapter 11

Two cups of tea into the day and Mary Poppins had already had quite a morning. While a wave of soldiers had just left to convalesce in the south, more of their men arrived in as bad a condition as ever. Fewer of these men had been torn apart by explosions. Instead, toxic gas served as the primary cause of damage. Their faces were scarred; their skin was burnt and blistering. More serious wounds were concealed though not disguised with filthy bandages that deepened in colour as wounds continued to seep. Mary looked around the ward. Almost a third of the victims could be observed coughing up blood, many vomiting deep red bile into troughs held by nurses.

Someone who had known Mary Poppins before the war would have been startled. A woman of such propriety standing in a ward of the most grotesque and surreal display of human bodies, her own hands freckled with specks of dirt and blood, her sleeves rolled up and hair falling from her cap. But despite her appearance, if there was anything left for her to pride herself on, it was the way she knew she approached the work before her. If these men were the only people left in the world she knew she could help, then it was all she could do to maintain what little there was left of the real Mary Poppins.

"Mustard Gas," Bert's voice came from behind her. "They call it the 'Hun Stuff'."

"I've never seen anything like it," Mary said earnestly.

"It's only recent," he explained. "This lot came in from Ypres. We've been getting reports for a couple of months about it."

"I'm amazed they managed to get home," she said quietly.

Bert nodded as he was pushed aside by another team of medics bringing more victims into the ward.

"I need you to attend to these men here," he instructed. "Clean their skin and prepare them for examination."

As he was about to leave, she caught his arm. "The men vomiting blood, how long have they got?"

He sighed deeply. "You know what to do. All I can say is at least they got home."

As he left her, Bert privately thought otherwise about this. If they had died at the front, it would have saved them a great deal of suffering. The only benefit now was that their families could see them buried properly, but he could not begin to think of the journey from France, and what these men must have endured.

Sometimes he wondered whether he would have preferred the alternative himself. Had he died in France, he would have been remembered as a loyal servant of his country, even though this was far from the truth. Everyone could have buried the past along with him and Mary could have neglected any thoughts of him now and think only of how they had been all those years ago – a nanny and a chimney sweep.

But, as he reminded himself, he knew he had been lucky. His scars were not overly visible, and even having lost the bottom of his left calf down, he could still walk convincingly. And as he once again realised his fortune, he was filled with remorse.

He had done so little to deserve to come home. He had not been a patriot. He had not proudly served his King and country. The whole time from the minute he read the telegram to every moment in France, he had been furious. For a start, for having been called up in the first place. Why should he go fight a war without cause? A war that only concerned England because of something as ridiculous as an alliance. But most of all, when he had left for France, he had been angry with Mary Poppins.

Perhaps surviving was his punishment after all. Death would have been easy, clean, painless perhaps. But even the loss of limb was not the cause of his suffering. Her words, her actions. He thought he had imagined her saying it. He had thought, perhaps, in that coma his subconscious had a pleading speculation that after everything, Mary Poppins had had good reason for her choices. He would never have guessed it to be true. Now, knowing those words had entered his thoughts from her own mouth, and furthermore that she had saved his life, he had to live the rest of his days knowing he was, without doubt, the worst living person there was left.

...

Mary unwrapped yet another man's soiled bandages to be met with another pair of milky, faint eyes against red blistering skin. Bert soon came over and did not have to speak a word before the pair of them had subconsciously diagnosed his condition: gas blindness. Bert once again felt a small dose of remorse as he realised that his ability to work would have been lost had he suffered the same blow as this young Private. Bert spoke kindly to the man. He was not patronising, nor did he make the manner too confronting. It was almost certain this soldier would never see again. The boy (as Mary soon realised he could not be older than 17) graciously acknowledged what it appeared he had known for a while but hoped would not be confirmed. She fitted fresh bandages over his eyes and could tell he was doing everything in his power not to let out any tears. She was astonished by his courage, especially for a boy so young.

Bert continued inspecting the patients she had prepared. All of them had gas blindness and she too felt a surge of guilt for having taken her own sight for granted for so long. She moved along, inspecting the nurses and their patients, some of which required two nurses as their fits grew more violent. She heard an angry choking behind her and saw a nurse struggling with a man coughing up bile red with blood. The young woman was flustered. She must have been in the same rank as Jane, but evidently still inexperienced. She was frightened, her hands shaking, but she persisted as she continued to do her job. "Go attend to those men," Mary called to her, gesturing to the blind men Bert was inspecting. "I can take over."

"Yes matron," the young woman responded thankfully as Mary took the patient in her hands. His eyes were reddening as he struggled to take the slightest breath. Once the bile stopped, she laid him back onto the pillow. Covering the bowel and placing it on the stand, she then turned back to the man who was now trembling. The colour had drained from his skin and his eyes seemed to be rolling back. She clutched his hand gently and soothed it as his trembling eased. Soon, it stopped entirely as he grew perfectly still. He was at peace.

Mary closed his eyelids and, standing up, placed the sheet over his head. She could not linger too long as quickly turned to the covered bowel and made off to dispose of it. He was not the first man who had died in her hands. But even after all this time, one didn't desensitised to it, rather you simply got used to it. As she walked, she thought of the letter she would have to write to the young man's family. She remembered all the others she had written. They were all almost identical, each saying a man died peacefully, whether true or not. Today was perhaps the first time she could really be honest.

It was strange, working to help and heal all these men. She had been helping the war effort for just over two years now, yet it didn't feel like an accomplishment. She was constantly helping these men, doing everything she could. People were telling her she was doing more than enough. But for Mary, nothing she ever did felt enough. Even if she healed every man on every front from every side, it would still not be enough to redeem her. Though she wanted to be, so desperately, there was nothing left of the real Mary Poppins.

The real Mary Poppins was long gone.

...

At lunch, Jane left the children's ward to have a word to Doctor Anderson. She walked through the main hospital and up the main staircase to his office when she was her brother exiting with Bert, a satisfied grin on Michael's face.

"What's happened?" Jane asked.

Michael looked at his sister, the awkwardness of their recent row evidently still hanging over them.

"Well, I don't have to leave London for a start," Michael began.

"Oh. I thought you could to stay with Aunt and Uncle," Jane said, for that's what she had planned to discuss with Doctor Anderson.

"I'm going to do a bit of volunteering," he smiled.

Jane looked puzzled. "Volunteering?

"Yes."

"Michael, I know I was young, but aren't you–"

"Oh, not like that," he explained. "Bert's letting me be his apprentice."

She stared at Bert. "I hope you don't mind," Bert added.

"It's not her business to mind," Michael said quickly.

"It's educational," he assured her, "and nothing he can't handle."

"It's better than going to France," Jane smiled. "I suppose I should say congratulations then," she held out her hand to him. "And I'm sorry I was such an arse to you."

Michael smirked at her choice of words as he took her hand and shook it. "Sorry for snapping too," he said apologetically. "You're good at what you do, no matter what people say."

"Thanks," she smiled and hugged her brother. It was nice to be on good terms again.

Bert regarded the pair of them and headed back to the wards.

"You didn't tell me Mary Poppins was here," Michael said excitedly.

"I only found out yesterday, when she arrived. She's the new Matron."

"Well if that doesn't sound like a job for Mary Poppins then I don't know what is," Michael laughed.

Jane smiled in response, but then lowered her voice. "How did she seem to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Jane thought about how to phrase it. "Did she seem a bit... different?"

"Harder and more solemn?"

Jane nodded, "something like that."

They were quiet momentarily then Jane asked "did she tell you anything?"

"What?"  
"What did she say to you?"  
"Just that she was in France."

"Yes, but anything else?"

Michael thought for a bit and shook his head. "No, why?"

"Michael, there's something you should know. Something she told me." Jane hastily pulled her brother down an empty corridor. "I can tell she's really distressed, Michael. She's not like her old self."

"Well, there is a war going on."

"That's not what I mean, Michael. Did she tell you she's lost her magic?"

Michael looked at his sister, puzzled.

"Oh come on! Don't try and pretend that what we witnessed when we were children wasn't real. You know it as well as me!"

"No, Jane. It's not that. I just – I don't see how that could happen."

Jane's face grew very solemn. "The war," she said quietly. "At least, that's what she told me. But I think it's more than that. The war has hurt everyone, but there must be something more to it. People are losing loved ones, but as far as I know she never really had many loved ones, did she?"

Michael's eyes narrowed but then he shrugged. "Except Bert, I suppose."

Jane's eyes widened in astonishment. Her brother returned his gaze, puzzled. "What?"

Jane didn't respond, but immediately headed back down the hall.

"Jane! Wait!"

Jane looked into the many wards along the corridor until she found the one she was after.

Mary and Bert were walking among rows of soldiers discussing, Jane assumed, the many patients they were treating together. They were not cold with one another, but rather there was a mutual sadness that seemed to pass between them.

"Jane, what is it?" Michael caught up.

Jane watched the pair work sternly and attentively, yet every time their eyes met, it was almost mournful, like they had both lost something.

"It's Bert."


	12. Chapter 12

The months had rushed by before anyone had cared to notice. Soon the cold of November crept upon them and the streets of London were quickly covered in frost. It was almost certain to snow this winter. There had not been much talk about Christmas. The staff had much more important matters to attend to at the war office. Even the remaining children were very hushed. While Jane and Nurse McIntosh had made excellent progress and many children had already left, there were still a number of recovering patients and, worse still, children who had recovered but with no homes or families to go to. There was a great lingering fear among them.  _Will we get a Christmas this year?_

Jane walked through the ward and watched the twenty kids left in her care. They were very quiet. Most sat round the small fireplace at the end of the hall wearing the extra blankets that had been used on the beds of the children who were now gone. They sat quietly, playing snap or whatever game they could as most were not old enough to understand the big novels that had been donated to the hospital.

Jane came to the bed which she knew to be the little girl, Meg's. Out of her apron pocket, she pulled the girl's ribbon, which was now silky and white, though a little shorter. She folded the fine fabric and went to put it under the pillow.

"Nurse don't!"

She turned around and met the little girl's eager face.

"I wonts to wear it!" She pleaded. "Can you puts it in me hair?"

"Certainly," Jane smiled as little Meg turned around excitedly as Jane combed her soft blonde locks into a small pigtail and fashioned the ribbon into a nice bow to secure it.

"There," she said gently. "Now go sit by the fire and keep warm."

She watched the girl join the other children but was surprised when she didn't join their game of snap. Little Meg sat closer to the fire, her eyes fixed on the burning wood, evidently in deep thought.

Nurse McIntosh came into the ward and quietly told Jane she was needed at the main hospital. "There's not many of this little ones left and they're needed more nurses for the war casualties."

"I understand, thank you."

"Major Anderson has asked that you and I rotate our shifts with the children. I don't mean to intrude on your fine work here but–"

"If it's what the Major has asked, I am more than happy to oblige him," Jane said considerately. "And you work with these children frequently enough, I couldn't trust anyone better."

Jane felt very strange speaking to Nurse McIntosh this way. She was, after all, much more mature and experienced than herself and much older than any of the other nurses at the hospital. Yet, not only did she respect Jane, despite not nearly being the lowest age required for working nurses, but in this instance, treated her as her superior. It was pleasant in some ways, but it also felt most peculiar.

"I had better get up to the wards then," Jane smiled, trying her best to maintain a professional tone, but a small smile escaped which Nurse McIntosh understood perfectly as a "thank you".

It was only when she turned to make her way back to the hospital that Jane looked at Meg properly as she sat with the other children. Her gaze remained transfixed on the burning flames, though she barely seemed to notice they were there. But it was not Meg's face that Jane pondered on as she made her way over to the main hospital. It was the faces of the other children. From the minute Meg had sat down, they had not uttered a word. And while they looked to each other, not one dared to look over their shoulder at the little girl sitting behind them. As she reflected on this strange display, what puzzled Jane the most was how it was not a cold shoulder out of dislike or indifference. It was almost as if they were frightened.

...

Jane came quickly into the ward and soon saw the familiar sight she had been quite acquainted with up until the children's ward had been needed. She was not startled in any way by what she was met with, but rather she felt remorse – a different kind to that she had been experiencing in the past few months. Immediately, she set to work, moving to different patients and cleaning their bandages. She recognised the familiar face of one of the nurses, though she couldn't have been less pleased to see it. The snarky girl, Harriet, was attending to some of the officers. She was hardly attending to their injuries as she flirted and made herself look rightly ridiculous.  _I have certainly not missed this_ , thought Jane irritably as she worked to keep a kind face for her own patients. She was surprised that she was not more eager to help the soldiers, especially after what they had endured. But she figured she had been rather privileged with the independence she had been given with the children, but now she found herself back to doing the real work.

"A hard day for you, Nurse?"

Jane round for where the voice had come from and quickly found the patient lying in a bed two down from hers. "I'm sure you've seen worse," she replied kindly, finishing with the man she had been handling before coming over to the man who had spoken.

"Not me," he said earnestly. "I've been right lucky. Not like some of the lads who come through here. But you've seen them all, haven't you?"

"In some regards," Jane replied. Truly, she had seen a great many men who had suffered all sorts. But it was nothing she was sure, to what the nurses in France had seen. And again, what the boys in the trenches were experiencing.

"You're not new," he said suddenly. "I don't know your face but the way you work. You're not like the other girls."

"Oh?" Jane replied, puzzled.

"What I mean is, you can't be more than twenty and yet, you know your stuff. You know what you're doing."

"I volunteered here for some time at the start of the war," she told him.

"I haven't seen you in the wards," he remarked.

"I've been managing the children's ward for the casualties from the bombing here a couple of months back."

He shook his head in remorse. "There's good reason kids shouldn't be hearing about what's happening there, yet here they are thrust in amongst it."

"It's regrettable. But we shouldn't have them here for much longer. It's becoming less of a hospital ward and more of an orphanage now. Most of the children are without parents as a result." "Blimey," he said, astonished.

"I'm amazed at how they are handling it," she told him. "They're just children after all, yet–"

"Their innocence is gone, that's what's done it."

Jane nodded, finally understanding it herself.

The soldier smiled and held out a hand. "Captain Edward Stevens."

"Nurse Jane Banks," Jane returned.

...

It was dark and chilly by the time Jane walked over to the children's ward. The anticipated snow had finally begun to fall and she folded her arms and bit her lip as she tried to fight the cold. She was exhausted and grateful that the children did not require as much attention. Now that the worst of the casualties had been handled, supervision was the only thing the children required at night. Jane would simply wait until they had fallen asleep, before making herself comfortable. If something happened during the night, the children only need wake her.

She quietly shut the door and spotted Nurse McIntosh who was sitting impatiently in the chair by the fire. When she saw Jane, she began to speak in a hurried whisper. "Nurse Banks!" She cried. "They're all very well, but it's that Meg child again. I spotted a book under her pillow and I suggested we put it on her bed-side table, but she grew very cross and I don't know why."

"Thank you, Nurse McIntosh, I will handle the girl in the morning. I'm sure she meant nothing by it."

"I'm sure she didn't," continued Nurse McIntosh, "only, she seemed a little frightened that I might see it. Like she wasn't supposed to have it."

"I understand," replied Jane. "I will deal with her."

After warning her colleague about the snow outside, Jane kindly bid Nurse McIntosh goodnight before turning to look at the little sleeping Meg.

She was curled up tightly beneath the blankets, the ribbon was still in her hair (she assumed she had refused Nurse McIntosh's request to remove it). Quietly walking between the beds, Jane looked at Meg's pillow, which seemed slightly elevated from something underneath. She soon spotted the corner of the book Nurse McIntosh had mentioned which poked out just near where the child's hand was resting. Ever so slowly, Jane pulled the book from beneath Meg's pillow, careful not to stir the child in the process. It was not so much her curiosity that sparked this action, but rather concern. Jane had observed the children's hostility toward the girl earlier. And if it was any consolation, she hoped she might be able to resolve the matter.

But the matter, Jane immediately realised, was much greater than she had anticipated. She had assumed much about the little girl, but nothing had brought her to conclude anything such as this. Form the minute she opened the book, she immediately wished she had never seen it. While it was nothing dangerous from what she could tell – just a collection of poetry – she immediately knew it meant the worst. On the very first page was a name written in a neat hand: Margaretha von Kleist. The titles of the poems Jane could not understand, nor was she familiar with its list of authors. But from the funny script and strange words in that first title, she immediately knew what it signified:

 _Der Erlkönig_ , Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.


	13. Chapter 13

"I am simply concerned for the boy," Major Anderson protested. He had gathered the Matron and the Sergeant in the Matron's office and had immediately launched into a monologue outlining his thoughts on the two Banks children. "I have nothing against his contribution here, he'll prove immensely helpful. But, he  _is_  a boy. Should he not be in school?"

"I think it's quite clear why Michael Banks has not gone returned to school for the semester," Bert said upfront. He exchanged a look with Mary who was obviously shared the same thought.

"Whatever do you mean?" The Major responded.

"Their father, George Banks, has still not been found," Mary replied. "Their mother died some years ago and at present, Michael cannot enter any school without any means to fund his tuition."

The room fell very quiet.

"Unless George Banks is found, the closest thing to a guardian Michael will have is Jane, who is not yet out and is barely old enough to enter the workforce. She is too old to go to an orphanage and Michael would refuse to go anyway."

"The boy may not have a choice," Major Anderson said, flatly. "I don't want to see him cast off like this, but I must follow orders from the War Office. The Banks children–" although, everyone present knew they weren't  _really_  children – "are victims of war crimes, along with the other children remaining in that ward. Which, I might add, we will not have the liberty of trespassing on for much longer. During the summer there were no problems, what with school holidays, but we must decide what to do with the remaining children soon."

"The school knows the war effort comes first," Bert cut in.  
"The  _war_  effort, Sergeant Albert. The school assumed we would be housing  _soldiers_  there!"

"You said yourself, those children are victims of war crimes!"

"Bert, please!" Mary cut in, not realising she had addressed him by his first name. "Major Anderson is right. We cannot debate the issue when it has already been decided."

The Major sat down in the chair beside the Matron's desk, his hands wiping sweat from his greying hairs. "My hands are tied," he said quietly. "Miss Banks is a member of staff here, she is safe."

"What of Michael's work with me?" Bert asked. "We cannot send him to school or the orphanage. He too should not be forced to enter the workforce at this age. He can learn from me until his father returns."

" _If_  his father returns, Sergeant," the Major interrupted. "It has been five months. We can only assume the worst has happened."

"For now, the boy can work with me," Bert said, almost demandingly. "And if the War Office won't allow it, he can work  _for_  me."

A knock was heard at the door and one of the nurses entered asking after the Major. He reluctantly rose and turned to leave, but he turned to the pair to say "we have access to the school's facilities until the new year. We have until then to make a decision on the Banks boy." As he turned to finally walk out, Mary spoke.

"Major Anderson. In your next letter to the War Office, please kindly remind them that this is a  _public_  hospital. While we must and we do help the war effort in every way possible, we still have a duty to the people of London and to the people of England. While men are suffering tremendously at the front, on our own soil, women are still giving birth, children are still falling sick and the elderly are still facing the natural trials of life. The world does not stop for war. And if we let it slip between our fingers, there will be nothing left worth fighting for."

The Major heeded her words as he left her office. Mary and Bert stood quietly for a time. Eventually, she sat down at her desk, she looked distraught.

"I feel sorry for him," she admitted. "He's right. His hands are tied."

"Mary," Bert began.

"We all wish we could help everyone but–"

"Mary," Bert repeated as she brought her hands to her face. Bert came and sat by her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "He won't send Michael off. I'll make sure he doesn't."

"It's not that," she said, very quietly. She moved her palms revealing her face. She looked so different. Yes, age was beginning to show in her, but it was distress in her eyes that made her look so distorted. Bert had never seen her like this.

"There was a time I could do anything. I could fix anything I wanted to, I could help anyone. And now, when people really need me–" she couldn't finish her sentence. Her eyes were welling up, but she stifled her tears. Bert knew her too well. Mary Poppins would never cry in front of anyone. "I have never felt so useless, Bert," she said inaudibly.

Bert sat quietly. His hand was still on her shoulder, he felt her shivering. Without thinking, he began to soothe her. Without her realising it, her shoulders relaxed.

"We mustn't blame ourselves for what the war has done," he reminded her. He lowered his voice as he added "and you mustn't blame yourself for your loss."

Her eyes shot up at this. She looked full at him revealing her face, clear as day, drenched with tears. "If I haven't got magic, then what have I got, Bert!"

"A desire to help others and the will to do so!" He reminded her. "We did not all fall in love with Mary Poppins the magician! I fell in love with Mary Poppins, the  _nanny_!" He spoke the words before realising exactly what he had said. She shifted her shoulder from his grasp, his hand hovered in the air, his face transformed into utter dread.

"Mary, I–"

"You promised, Bert."

"I–" he began, but he could say nothing.

"You promised you would not love me."

 _That's a pie crust promise_ , his thoughts echoed her own words.  _Easily made, easily broken._

He stood up without speaking and went to leave. He gripped the handle before turning back to her. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her he knew everything. He had known all along. Even before his leg, he had guessed. He wanted to blurt it all out, but he turned the handle and walked away. He had long missed his chance. He had missed it years ago.

He had learned the truth too late.


	14. Chapter 14

Jane paced outside the Matron's office. She had gone to knock about three times, before stopping herself each time. She had no idea what to do.

Part of her didn't want to tell anyone. She didn't know what kind of danger they were in, they might even be charged with harbouring a fugitive.  _No_ , she corrected herself.  _Meg is a child! An English child!_  The book could have all sorts of explanations. Still, its existence alone put Meg and even the rest of the hospital in danger.

She couldn't do this alone.

Though she didn't want to burden anyone, she knew there was only one person's advice she could ask on the matter. And though Mary Poppins was not who she once was, she was still the only person capable of handling this matter. And she was, after all, the Matron of the hospital ‒ she deserved to know more than anyone.

Jane turned around for a fourth time and raised her fist to knock, when the door opened Mary Poppins stood waiting for her.

"Matron," Jane began, before stammering.

"I was just about to come find you, Nurse Banks," Mary Poppins said, returning the formalities. "I must speak to you about your brother, but that can wait," she decided, looking at Jane's flustered state. "By the looks of things what you have to tell me is more important."

Jane nodded mutely. "I have a very – mhm," she began, not knowing how to remotely phrase what she had to tell her.

"Come inside," Mary said hastily. Jane walked in and Mary quickly looked out into the corridor, just to be sure they would not have unwanted company.

"I don't know who else to talk to and, you're the Matron, but–" Jane began, but had no idea how to continue.

"Calm down Jane," Mary told her, grabbing a chair. Jane sat with her hands together, wondering exactly how to begin to phrase everything.

"I... I discovered something, in one of the children's possessions. Something that could potentially be dangerous. Not just to the child but all of us."

"In what way dangerous?" Mary asked.

"Not violent or anything," Jane assured her. "Just–" she reached into her pocket and handed her the poetry book. "Though there are a million explanations, and I know the girl personally, in the eyes of the War Office we may be harbouring a German fugitive."

Mary looked at the cover of the little book, she opened it to the title page, just as Jane had.

"Margaretha von Kleist?"

"Meg," Jane explained. "The book is hers. I found it under her pillow. Nurse McIntosh saw it, she doesn't know what it is, and Meg wouldn't let her see it. I stole it while she was sleeping. I shouldn't have, but I was worried about her."

"No, that's quite alright, Jane," Mary replied, flicking through the pages. " _Goethe, Schiller..._ "

"Do you know them?"

"Of course I do," Mary remarked. "You know full well I was privileged to have a rich education. And when I was your age, it was more common for young ladies to study German as well as French. These are authors of what is known as the Storm and Stress period in German literature."

She flicked through quietly, a little smirk sprung on her lips as she came across some familiar titles.

"Meg's English," Jane assured her. "I doubt she can read any of that."

Suddenly, a memory arose of the day she first met the little girl.  _Meg, like me mum._

"Her mother's German," Jane realised.

Mary nodded.

Jane could feel her breath rising in her chest. She had not realised how truly afraid for the girl she was until now. Mary placed the book on her desk and stared at it in deep thought.

"I think," she began, "before we do anything, we should speak to her. After all, we are only going off mere suspicions, the book could mean anything."

"Anything, but I think it means what we think it means."

Mary nodded solemnly. "None the less, we won't know what to do until we know the facts. She claims to be an orphan, but for all we know her parents may still be alive, whether she knows where they are or not."

"That's true," Jane realised.

"Nurse McIntosh is down in the wards now. You will go now and bring the girl here." She leaned in and added quietly, "and this must remain between the two of us. It is better for the safety of everyone else they remain in ignorance for now."

...

Jane hurried immediately over to the children's ward. The snow was beginning to fall heavier still as she bolted across the empty road to the school hall. As she approached the door, she could hear yelling, a little girl's voice stronger than them all. "WHAT YOU DONE WITH IT! YOU TRICKSTER! YOU BITCH!"

Upon hearing the horrible words, Jane rushed inside to see Nurse McIntosh struggling with little Meg. They both looked utterly broken. Nurse McIntosh was in tears as Meg kicked and screamed, bellowing insult after insult. It was not at all the common display of a child throwing a tantrum, Meg was distraught. Jane could see Nurse McIntosh's panic and knew she had absolutely no idea where the book had disappeared to.

"Thank heavens Nurse Banks!" She cried.

Noticing Jane, Meg stopped fighting Nurse McIntosh's grip. She looked directly at Jane, a look of utter fear growing over her face. The whole room had fallen silent.

"Meg, will you come with me please," Jane said quietly. She knew this wouldn't be easy.

It seemed that every horror that could possibly bestow itself on a person had done so on Meg. She would not move. She did not stray her gaze away from Jane. She knew that Jane knew, and it terrified her.

"Do what Nurse Banks says!" Nurse McIntosh said hastily. Reluctantly, Meg walked over to Jane who took her hand gently and escorted her out of the ward. A ring of whispers began to echo from the children behind them.

...

They did not speak as they walked across the snow covered street and climbed the stairs through the hospital to the Matron's office. Jane knocked and at Mary's response, entered with Meg.

"Hello Meg," Mary said kindly.

Meg didn't say anything. She just stared at the Matron in utter horror. "Will you sit down?" Mary asked quietly. "Nurse Banks and I simply wish to talk to you."

Jane nodded to her encouragingly and helped her onto the chair before the Matron's desk. Looking over the top, Meg immediately spotted her book and her suspicions were confirmed.

"It ain't what you think!" She bellowed before either woman could say anything. Mary said nothing as Jane came round and picked up the book, opening it to the title page where the name had been inked in.

"Meg, what is your surname?" Jane asked her calmly. "Your family name, that is."

"It's Smith, nurse," Meg muttered.

"Your father's name?"

"Yes, nurse."

Jane sighed deeply before continuing. Mary Poppins said nothing, letting Jane steer the conversation. They both knew the girl would respond to her questions more easily.

"Meg is very pretty name," Jane admitted, "though much more English than Margaretha."

At this, tears finally began to fall down Meg's cheeks.

"You told me you were named after your mother."

"I'm a Londoner, nurse?" She blurted. "Through and through!"

"Of course you are," Jane replied. "And you are in no danger from the Matron here or myself, I assure you. But there are others who would certainly seek to harm you."

"I ain't never been to Germany!" Meg exclaimed. "I'm English! I'm a  _Londoner_!"

"Where are your parents, Meg?" Jane asked. "Are they still alive?"

Meg shrugged. "Dunno where they've gone," she sniffed, wiping her nose on the back of her hand.

"When was the last time you saw them?" Jane asked her.

Meg started to say something, but she was cut off by a storm of tears which swept from her eyes. Jane knelt beside her and clasped her hands comforting. She took a handkerchief from her apron pocket and wiped the girl's eyes. Mary said nothing but watched her comfort the girl. "We are here to help you, Meg," she assured her. "Let's go through everything slowly. The day you came to the hospital, the day of the raid, you told me they had been killed. Was that true?"

Meg didn't say anything and stared down at the handkerchief in her hands.

"You don't know where they are do you?"

She shook her head.

Jane stood up and looked across the room for a chair. She sat down next to the girl and took her hand again. She glanced to Mary who nodded for her to continue.

"Tell us Meg. Where were you on the day of the raid?"

...

"I'm from the east end, you guessed right. I remember them bombs. I was at home, me aunty's that is."

"Where is your aunt now?" Jane asked.

Meg looked down at her hands. "Gone," she said, and neither of the women had to ask what she meant.

"This was on the day of the raid?" Jane confirmed.

Meg nodded.

She sat thinking for a bit before looking to Mary for encouragement.

"When did you move in with your aunt?" Mary asked, taking the reins.

"A few years back," Meg answered quietly. "After they left."

"At the start of the war?"

"Yes."

Jane had stopped asking the questions and simply stroked the girl's hand.

"I knew they was in trouble. They weren't those folks what go round dodgin'. But I knew somethin' was wrong. They was scared. When they tooked me to me aunt's, they said they'd be 'back soon'. But, after a year or so, I knew 'soon' for grown-ups can really mean a long time."

"You're not wrong there," Jane replied.

"Did you know your mother was German, Meg?" Mary asked, changing the subject.

"Yeah, I knew," Meg replied, startled. "But I didn't know what that meant."

"You mean when the war began?"

Meg nodded, "she talks like us, she does. Dad always used to say 'Meg, your mummy talks right proper English, right she does.' She talked more proper than me 'n Dad."

Mary's eyes widened suddenly.

"What is it?" Meg asked. "Is something wrong?"

Jane looked at Mary, puzzled. She shook her head in response. "It's not important." She placed a hand to her chin and stared at her desk, processing everything Meg had told her. Jane didn't say anything, but continued to hold the girl's hand.

"I will be frank with you Meg," Mary began finally. "To me, it sounds like your parents have fled the country. They have definitely not gone to Germany, it sounds like your mother has even fewer friends in her homeland than she does here. Many people fled to Spain to escape the war, but as they left you here, to me it seems they were running from the English authorities and didn't want you to get tangled up. So, with that considered, I can't be sure they would just go to Spain. If they really wanted to escape the war, they would have had to go further."

Jane listened to Mary think aloud. She had never seen any of the nurses so forward with the children. It was a great deal to process for a child. But she too remembered how she had been treated by Mary Poppins as a child. Whenever trouble had come, they had always confronted it. While her childhood had been a jolly one with the nanny, not once had she shielded them from the troubling world.

Mary rose from her seat and came round to the girl, kneeling beside her. "It is important that you understand that not only would it be near impossible to contact them, but as it sounds like they are wanted by the English and possibly even the German authorities, any attempt to contact them would likely put you, myself and the rest of the hospital in danger."

The girls eyes began to flood again, but she nodded understandingly.

"However, I have some connections in the war office who may be able to tell me why your parents may be wanted by the authorities."

"Her mother is German, is that not enough of an excuse?"

Mary shook her head. "If that were the only reason, they would have taken Meg with them." She looked back at the little girl. "If we can find out why they were being targeted, it may tell us where they might have headed and what has happened to them." She placed a hand on Meg's shoulder. "But you must understand that this will be dangerous and we need to be very careful about how we go about it."

"I'm sorry I lied," Meg stammered to both of them. "I didn't know what to do! I was scared I'd get in trouble."

"It's fine Meg," Mary promised. "As I said, you have nothing to fear from us. However," she began as she rose to retrieve the book from her desk.

"You is gonna have to burn it now, isn't you?" She said, her tears starting again.

"No, Meg," Mary promised. "But I had better look after it, for your protection. If a book of German poetry is found among my possessions, it will look much less suspicious. I studied German in my youth and speak it quite proficiently. I have even been required to use my skills for the war effort. They won't question me. It will be quite safe."

Meg jumped off her seat and ran to Mary and clung to her round the middle. Mary froze, completely shocked at the gesture, her hands suspended awkwardly in the air. Gradually, she lowered one hand to the child's head and, out of instinct, stroked her fair blonde hair. Jane watched, completely astonished, but was more shocked when she thought she saw the glimpse of a smile appear on Mary's lips.

"We had better get you back to the ward, Meg," Jane said finally. "And I think you might owe Nurse McIntosh an apology."

Meg let go of the Matron and nodded, slightly embarrassed. "Can I sees the book? Just one more time."

Mary placed it in her palms and she quickly skimmed its pages, staring blankly at the words which remained a mystery to her. She turned back to the title page and kissed her mother's name, written in her own hand, and gave it back to Mary.

"Would you mind waiting outside for a moment, Meg?" Jane asked her. "I just need to have a word to the Matron."

Meg walked slowly towards the door, her eyes not straying from her mother's book until she had stepped outside. Jane turned quickly to Mary, who was still recovering from the child's gesture.

"Are you okay?" She asked without thinking.

"Well that could have all been a lot worse," Mary admitted. "I am quite relieved actually, but you were right to come to me about this."

"Yes," Jane agreed, then remembering what she had wanted to say. "What was it you realised, when she said her mother spoke English more properly than her father? You realised something."

"Yes, that," Mary remembered. "I thought, if her mother spoke English better than her father, it would mean she didn't learn English from him. She must have learnt English before she moved here. Which would mean she received a privileged education, which would also explain the quality of the book. It also probably means‒"

"She married beneath herself," Jane realised.

Mary looked sternly at Jane. "She married for love," she corrected her. "But however you phrase it, it means that she sacrificed a great deal when she came here. She was probably cut off from her family."

"She spoke better English than Meg's father," Jane pondered aloud.

"She was probably trying to establish a new identity. New country, new family, new life. She probably changed her name to Margret when she married, or perhaps even before that, which might explain why the English authorities suspected her."

"Because she was living here under a false name?"

Mary nodded. "But we can't assume anything just yet. I will make inquiries, but I have to be careful about how I go about it. I can't go to Major Anderson."

"Of course not."

"But Sergeant Alfred might know someone, we can trust him." It was the first time Jane had heard her refer to Bert as 'Sergeant Alfred' and found it very strange and unfamiliar.

"I need to get back to the wards and so do you Jane. We will discuss this again later."

Jane nodded a response and moved towards the door. As the two of them left, she spotted Mary's old parrot umbrella ‒ the very same she had arrived at the hospital with, and the very same she had brought to Number 17, Cherry Tree Lane all those years ago. As she walked back to the ward with Meg, she told herself her eyes had deceived her. But as she had closed the door, she could have sworn she had seen its brilliant round eye wink.


	15. Chapter 15

Michael clutched Bert's heavy satchel as they entered yet another ward to distribute treatments to soldiers. Michael had spent a great deal of time getting to know the many substances and their purposes. Some of the chemicals he had never heard of in medicines, but was surprised when he discovered they were used variously in all manner of household substances. He grew to be quite comfortable with the chemicals themselves, at least while he wasn't in the wards. But walking through those halls was a whole other world.

He deeply regretted his cruel remark to Jane from the months earlier. He couldn't see how anyone could handle walking among these wards, let along his own sister who was but a few months shy of her eighteenth birthday. He also recalled the lengths he had gone to for just the possibility of going to France. He quickly ceased dwelling on the matter – he dared not think what might have become of him had he actually gone.

Seeing the men, seeing their wounds, feeling their pains, their experiences, was all Michael needed to convince him why Jane and Bert had retorted the way they had. He had not given a second thought that Jane would know a great deal more about the war effort than he, what with her years of experience working in the hospital. It was only now, as it was beginning to leave him, he truly felt his own innocence.

The shell shock patients frightened him the most. They had endured few physical scars and yet their encounter with what lay over there seemed all the more severe. What made matters worse was the knowledge that many, who had endured very little physical damage, would be forced to return to the front, or shot for cowardice. Hysterics, they called them. Well, not really. Hysteria was a  _woman's_  disease. Men couldn't be hysterics. And what were these soldiers if they weren't fit to be called men?

Every screeching man, every crying boy soiled in his own bodily fluids made Michael sick. But it wasn't them that disgusted him. It was knowing that he himself, if he had gone to France, would have come home exactly like that.

_So much for making your father proud._

"Michael, I need another sleeping draft."

Michael stared, transfixed on the men in the ward and found himself physically unable to move.

"Michael," Bert repeated. "The sleeping draft on the left, I need it right now."

Still Michael didn't move. He had heard Bert, yet somehow he had lost all capacity over his limbs. Suddenly, a familiar face stirred in the background that caught his eye. As he turned to look, a cold sweat began to break out over his face.

_Jock._

A piercing scream echoed through the ward. Many men fell onto their beds in fits of rage, screaming and wailing. Nurses rushed about, providing doses to calm them to no avail. Jock stood up and ran towards the window. "YOU CAN'T TAKE ME! YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME! I'LL NEVER GO BACK! YOU CAN'T!"

Without thinking, Michael ran to the window and grabbed his friend. "Jock! Jock! It's me, it's Michael!"

His old friend looked at him, but it was clear he had no recognition of who he was. "YOU WON'T MAKE ME! I'LL HANG MYSELF I WILL!"

"Jock, it's me!" Michael bellowed as, without realising, tears began to flood his face. His friend grabbed pushed passed him and was caught by a crowd of nurses, who grabbed the boy and wrestled him onto a bed. Before Michael could see anything else, he too had been grabbed by Bert who pulled him quickly from the ward.

"Jock! JOCK!"

Michael lost all sight of the ward as he was dragged outside. The muffled echo of Jock's wails followed them through the corridor.

Bert got a chair and sat Michael down, kneeling before him and taking his hand. Michael was shaking uncontrollably.

"Are you alright?" Bert asked quietly.

Michael didn't say anything. Immediately, his eyes filled with tears.

"I'll send for Jane, you can go sit in my office in the mean time. Take all the time you need, Michael."

He couldn't move. He couldn't say anything. He just sat and sobbed, Bert holding his hand.

...

"Michael?"

Jane pushed open the door of Bert's office. Bert was now speaking to Major Anderson about Michael's work, and whether he should continue working in the wards or not. Michael sat alone, his face blotched with tears. Jane quietly sat before him and took his hand. He didn't object her gesture, but he refused to meet her eyes.

Without thinking, she began speaking to him. "When I first came here, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I thought I would be bandaging petty wounds and chatting to brave men and women about the things they had seen and done."

She scoffed, reflecting on her own foolish innocence. "I spent night after night crying myself to sleep. I assumed you could hear me and I feared you would mock me. But you didn't."

She held her breath for a moment. "But I told myself I had to come back. I knew I didn't have the stomach for it, but I had to come back. They needed me, they need  _us_. And I just want you to know that it's okay to not feel alright. It's okay to lose it sometimes. You're still valuable to us. We still need you."

Michael hung his head, saying nothing.

"Bert says you need a rest," Jane continued. "I didn't have that choice as I am a nurse and they need as many of us as they can. I was obliged to continue, they were counting on me. And while we will need you, we want you to rest first, recover."

"I can't go back in that ward," he stammered. "Not with...  _him_  there."

"Take your time, Michael. Rest. And when you're ready, you can help these men."

"I can't go back Jane!" He turned, his eyes flooding again. "I can't look at him Jane! Not without seeing  _me_!"

Jane grew silent.

"That could have been me, Jane! I wanted to go to France! I  _tried_  to go! Had I gone, I would be  _in that ward_!"

"But Michael, you  _didn't_  go," Jane reminded him.

"But I  _tried_  Jane!" He bellowed. "I  _tried_! Oh why did I try? What might have happened!"

"Michael, listen to me," Jane demanded, reaching for his hand again. "When you tried to enlist, you couldn't have known what would happen. Jock couldn't have either. But you  _didn't_  go, and that's what's important. You're frightened, and that's okay. Talk to anyone in this hospital, we've all been through it, we still go through it. But you have something that we don't, Michael. You can give these boys something we can't. You can help Jock."

"I can't go back there Jane! I can't see him like that!"

"You  _know_  Jock. That's more than any of the doctors and nurses can say about their patients. You are a face he knows, whether he remembers or not. You can help him remember who he is, who he was before the war. You can bring him back."

"I can't do it, Jane!"

She smiled miserably. "Of course you can't right now. Which is why we want you to rest. But soon, you will be able to. We all have faith in you, Michael. The work you have done has been invaluable. We all need you very much. Besides," she hesitated, finding the words. "I don't want you to leave, Michael. You know what Major Anderson said. I won't let them do that to you. Our family has been broken enough and I won't let that happen again. You don't belong in an orphanage. You belong with your family, you belong with  _me_."

Michael looked up at his sister solemnly. "I'm sorry Jane," he whispered. "I'm sorry I tried to enlist."

Jane placed a hand on his cheek, turning his gaze back to her. "It doesn't matter what you did or have done. You can still help, just like you wanted to." She breathed deeply. "And no matter what happens, no matter what you do, you will always be my brother and I will always love you."

"I'm so sorry Jane," Michael blurted out, tears forming in his eyes again. "I'm so sorry!" He sobbed heavily and fell into his sister's arms. Jane held him close as she too, began to cry.

"I'm sorry too, Michael," she whispered. "I'm sorry I haven't looked out for you." She pulled away from her brother and looked at him sternly in the eye. "Whether father comes back or not, we need to stick together. I'm not losing another family member."

Michael wiped his eyes. "Nor I, Jane," he smiled. He knew she was right, they could not afford to lose anyone else. And though he did not realise it, he knew, deep down, he could not lose another friend. A friend who was slowly slipping away in the lonely wards.


	16. Chapter 16

Christmas Eve finally came.

                The snow had fallen quite heavily leaving a thick blanket on the streets. Every morning a few volunteers would wake early to shovel it off the roads, making way for the many trucks still bringing soldiers from the front. Despite the season, nothing had changed. Some modest decorations now hung over the city, but mostly locals decorating their homes as a routine gesture. There was very little done with the city itself. Too much was going towards the war effort.

Not even the children could get into the festive spirit. With many families separated and many of the remaining children orphans, it would be their first Christmas alone in the world. It broke Jane’s heart to see them like that. She and Nurse McIntosh had attempted to set up some festive activities inside the hall, but the children took to them rather glumly. Jane couldn't even allow them to play in the snow. While most of the children had recovered from the worst of their injuries, the nurses were prohibited from engaging the children in anything that might worsen their conditions. Especially when coats and blankets were so scarce.

                “Aren’t you going home for Christmas?” Jane had asked Nurse McIntosh earlier that week.

                “Well, my parents are no longer with us and my sister’s up north with her husband, so there’s not much point in it all. Besides,” she had said, looking at the hall of children left. “I think my company will be better felt here.”

                “Mine too."

                “If you and your brother wanted to do something, go somewhere–”

                “That's very kind,” Jane had replied before she could finish. “But I think we’d both be happier here, with people we know.”

                And Jane was right. Hers and Michael's mother was dead and their father was still nowhere to be found. She hadn’t spoken to Michael about it, even though she knew he was thinking the same thing. Neither of them could really bare to think about it.

                With Christmas coming however, it had really forced Jane to think about her father and her mother. She remembered the blow she had felt when her mother had been taken from them. She remembered that first Christmas after, how horribly wrong it had felt. Empty. But now, with her father gone, she assumed for good, what would they do?

                Jane had pushed any thought of it to the back of her mind until the week of Christmas. At a last minute thought, she had sent a hasty wire to Cook and Ellen, who had been working for a charity after the raid. They had both replied warmly, sending Christmas greetings, but both had admitted that they too were not to be going anywhere for Christmas. Everyone wanted to think of Christmas, but no one could when there was the war to think about.

                On Christmas Eve, Jane and Nurse McIntosh received permission from Major Anderson and the Matron that they might take the remaining children in the ward to the Christmas service at St Paul's that evening. While the sick and wounded continued the battle of recovery up in the wards, it was known that the children would not be permitted to remain at the hospital after the new year. There were only ten left. After the new year, many would be sent to relations, some as far as Spain where many families had fled to escape the war. A few would go to orphanages, which broke Jane's heart. Meg was one of them, which rose another set of problems.

                They gathered the children that night, distributing coats which both Jane and Nurse McIntosh were aware were not heavy enough to protect their weak souls from the biting London winter outside. Despite being Catholic, Nurse McIntosh had decided to join them for the Anglican service. "It's the same God," she told Jane when she suggested taking the children in separate groups. “Besides, at Christmas, I think it’s best for everyone to be all together. It doesn’t matter where you’re praying, really. And I think the children would rather be all together as well.”

                “Yes,” Jane responded, looking at the ward of remaining children in their care. "Yes I'm sure they would."

                Major Anderson and many of the other staff had remained in the wards that night. A number of members from the local parishes had come to provide services for the many soldiers who were confined to their beds. While the many members of the hospital continued to work, Jane and Nurse McIntosh had set out with the ten children for St Paul's.

                Their feet sunk deep into the snow as they trudged through the streets to St Paul's. While it reached up to Jane's and Nurse McIntosh's ankles, most of the children sank as deep as their knees, soiling their clothes and making them shiver with cold. Jane clasped the hands of some of the younger ones, helping them up. She looked up at Meg who was in front, marching briskly through the white street. She seemed to be leading the whole party when Jane suddenly realised, she was. She knew the streets of London better than anyone. Though she was very much from up on the east end, she had clearly spent a great deal of her time running about the streets of London. Jane could safely say that of their party, Meg easily knew the city the best.

                They entered a great intersection marked by a grand building which Jane suddenly recognised as the Bank of England. She suddenly remembered her father, where ever he was. _If_ he was even still alive. She was pretty sure she already knew the answer to that question, but she couldn't accept it. While her sensible, practical mind constantly told her she must, there was a part of her that was insistent on remaining hopeful. No matter how she tried, _something_ nagged at her of the possibility that he was out there, somewhere.

                She remembered that day back in 1910, long before the war was even thought of. The day she and Michael had run off and, somehow single-handedly, nearly ruined the entire economy of Great Britain. To her surprise, the thought made her laugh. Though she and Michael had had no idea of what they had done, on that day she and Michael had had full control of the economy of the entire country! Tuppence, that's what it had come down to. The economy of England nearly ruined over a dispute of tuppence.

                Tuppence? But of course! Michael had wanted to feed the birds! She and Michael had both walked by St Paul's that day when her father had taken Michael and herself to the Bank. Past where the bird woman had sat with her song and her crumbs. She realised, if she were to continue in this direction long enough, she would eventually find her way back to Cherry Tree lane.

                When they finally reached it, the stained glass of St Paul's was ablaze. The light from the inside projected through its many windows, casting rainbows onto the snow. With the lack of decorations across the city, the Cathedral somehow magically made it suddenly feel like Christmas. Jane looked over the sea of heads in the church. It seemed half of London had attended, even those who weren't really devoutly religious. But war gave everyone something to pray about, whether they even believed in a God or not.

                Jane and Nurse McIntosh gathered the children in a pew together. They huddled closely for warmth in the cold stone of the building. The little children clasped their palms together, more for the sake of warmth than in prayer. She saw Meg sit down next to Nurse McIntosh and the two immediately whispered something to each other about the Cathedral. To Jane's surprise, Nurse McIntosh had recovered well from the recent incident, but then again, the little girl had truly been remorseful. Somewhere, a bell chimed and those who were able stood for the opening hymn of the mass.

                The service passed as it had any other year. The same hymns projected from the organ and echoed by the congregation. It was only the sea of brown uniforms that served as a reminder of the reality of the war. But otherwise it was Christmas, finally, if only in St Paul's Cathedral. While everyone's thoughts and prayers travelled to their loved ones across the channel, the fear that had seemed to infect every inch of their country temporarily subsided.

                Jane bowed her head and prayed. For most of her life, she had not questioned her religion, but nor had she given herself wholeheartedly to it. But that night, she prayed in earnest. She prayed for the war to end, she prayed for lives to be spared, she prayed for Meg. Yes, Meg came into her thoughts a great deal. Then, of Mary Poppins, and of everything that she had been and should become again.

                But one particular thought she saved for last, mostly because she had been frightened how she might respond to its presence. She thought back to their walk over to the church and the sight of the Bank of England. She let her mind return to that spot and thought of her father. She thought of him, prayed for him, and suddenly realised how terribly she missed him.

                “Nurse Banks?”

                She opened her eyes and looked up. Nurse McIntosh was standing next to her. The service had concluded and the congregation was quickly emptying from the Cathedral.

"I'm terribly sorry, but we must get the children back before it gets any colder out there."

                “Of course,” Jane replied. “I just needed a moment.”

 

…

 

The Matron had left the hospital earlier that evening. All was calm, it seemed, and she had told them she was to be gone for two hours. Two hours, they could survive that long surely? It seemed even amidst war, the world came to a still at Christmas. Some years ago there had been a Christmas truce on one of the fronts. Though all involved had been severely punished, she wondered if right now, somewhere on the western front, there would be a ceasefire.

                Her stockinged legs worked through the snow. It was as thick and deep it seemed, as back in the clearing stations in France. She remembered working through December and January, her hands burning from the ice as she tended each patient. Her fingers had been useless. No matter what tune she tried to hum through her cracked, parched lips, nor what remedy she whispered to herself, she could not bring them to life. And she remembered how that moment had been the very first time she had felt it. She was not Astonishing, Extraordinary, Marvellous. She couldn't even say she was ordinary. It was the first time she had felt completely and utterly hopeless.

                Deep in thought, she had slowed her pace and arrived at St Paul's slightly later than anticipated. Entering the Cathedral quietly, she stood at the back and watched the service through the thick array of Londoners all huddling together to stay warm. She looked up at the high ceiling, the only part of the cathedral that appeared empty. As she stared at its high arches, the soft echo of heavy breathing served as the only reminder of the some thousand people around her. If she had been deaf, she might in that moment have felt quite alone.

                A hymn struck up and the congregation slowly got to their feet. She looked back over the sea of heads to find the small group from the hospital in a pew. Her eye immediately fell on Jane Banks, who at the sound of the organ had turned to the children, encouraging them to stand. Mary also noticed the little girl Meg, and immediately remembered their recent encounter. She had promised much to the little girl, but it was not her promise that weighted on her. It had not been a pie crust promise, she would never swear so much if she knew she could not deliver. It would be very difficult and dangerous, and whatever happened Mary did not want any of that danger to fall onto that little girl. Her thoughts continued to wander and she heard very little of the last sermon. And when the last hymn began and the congregation began to sing, Mary Poppins quietly slipped away.

                She walked back through London’s quiet streets. Any other time, it’d have been flooded with people. But everyone seemed to be tucked away at the church or hiding from the biting cold. She buried her hands in her pockets and pushed her face into the scarf around her neck. Closing her eyes, she felt her breath rise against her nose.

She rounded a corner and continued to work through the deep snow. The lamps were lit making the snow turn slightly yellow under the gaslight. There were a few people on this street, their faces also concealed behind their collars and caps. Mary bore them no mind.

                There was one figure was standing beneath one of the lamp posts. As she walked closer to him, she began to make out his face just visible in the yellowish smog.

                “Bert?”

                He lifted his head, his face emerging properly into the light.

                “Hello Mary.”


	17. Chapter 17

They walked together. The night air was almost painful but they retained their distance from one another. Their legs worked noisily through the thickening snow and they allowed it to fill their silence. They had not spoken since their last encounter, for which they both felt equally responsible.

                "Quite a thick blanket ain't it?" Bert said at last. Mary nodded without saying anything.

                They turned a corner and continued to walk just as they heard the faint sound of music. A small group of people gathered up ahead around a lone violinist playing a carol.

                “Silent Night,” Bert realised.

                Mary nodded.

                “Do they realise it’s a German carol?”

                Mary looked up. “I think _they_ do,” she replied, looking at the musician, whose head was bent over the instrument at his chin. “I’m not sure about everyone else though.”

                Bert smiled. “We’d better not say anything.”

                They kept walking as Mary began singing the carol under his breath. _Silent Night, Holy Night…_ Bert smiled at her efforts, before replying with a rendition of the original text. " _Alles schläft, einsem wacht…_ "

                “Don’t let anyone hear you,” Mary warned him.

                “Five years ago, no one would have turned a head,” he said sadly. Once they were out of earshot, Bert leaned closer and asked. "How does the rest go?"

                "I'm sorry?"

                "The rest, I can't remember it. Your German is better than mine."

                "Bert!" She whispered, looking around. "Someone will hear!"

                "It's only a Christmas carol," he assured her. "It's not treason."

                She sighed, then replied as softly as she could, " _Nur das traute hoch heilige paar. Holder knab im  lockigen haar. Schlafe in himmlischer ruh‒_ "

                " _Schlafe in himmlischer ruh_ ," Bert finished for her. The two of them smiled.

                "We could be arrested for that."

                "For singing?" Bert said in disbelief.

                She shrugged.

                "Is that what the world has come to?"

                Mary looked back down the street. "I don't know what the world is anymore."

                They had stopped in the middle of the street without realising. A slight wind had picked up, making the snowflakes flutter in the air as they came down. They flicked back and forward, colliding with their already cold cheeks. They didn't say anything. Mary pressed her nose into her scarf and looked at Bert, who had not taken his eyes off her. Finally, she lifted her chin against the wind so she could speak. "Bert, I wanted to apologise for the other day."

                Bert shook his head. "It's fine, it's already forgotten."

                "No, please. I understand you were only looking out for me. Things got out of hand."

                "Well, it doesn't matter."

                She looked at him. "Yes it does," she insisted. "You've put up with a great deal, Bert. You've been carrying everyone in this hospital lately, including me."

                "It's fine, Mary."

                "No, Bert. It's more than that. The other day, I wasn't myself‒"

                "We all have those days, Mary."

                "Well I don't."

                They both stopped at that. Even Mary was astonished at her own words.

                "At least, I never used to..."

                The snow was still falling around them as little flakes drifted slowly between them. She looked at the ground where the snowflakes were disappearing into the blanket of snow. "I used to be so composed," she began. "I not only knew myself but others. I could always spot when something was wrong or someone wasn't feeling right, whether they were aware of it or not. I knew others very well and myself even better, but now‒" she stopped, suddenly realising. "Now I'm not sure I even know myself."

                Bert hadn't said anything, but he knew he didn't need to. Mary had actually forgotten she was talking to him. It seemed he had stood in for the side of a conversation she had needed to have with herself. She looked back up at him. The snow was falling more quickly now, flying quickly between them. Bert stepped through it, coming closer to Mary.

                "You know," he said quietly. "I only got you to sing because I haven't heard you since before the war."

                She smiled. "I doubt they'd care for it much in the wards," she replied. "At least not a German carol."

                Bert laughed. "I won't tell."

                He began to take another step, but suddenly his bad leg slipped and he toppled towards her.

                "Bert!"

                Mary quickly caught him, just as the pair stumbled and collapsed onto the snow.

                "Damn!" Bert cried.

                The snow soiled their coats and drenched their legs. Mary's shivered through her ruined stockings. They tried to stand up, but quickly stumbled and fell again. Mary repeated Bert's chosen curse to be met with a shocked glance from her friend. She gave a guilty smile which he returned with a fit of laughter. They sat laughing together as the snow continued to spoil their clothes.

                Mary knew it was atrocious for the matron of London's largest hospital to appear in such a state ‒ especially in uniform, which was now half ruined. But she didn't dwell on it for long. Eventually, she and Bert helped each other up and began to walk back to the hospital, their arms around each other in case one should fall.

                By the time they did reach the hospital, the lights had been dimmed and the shutters closed. They both looked over at the school hall, in which the children had already been put to bed by Nurse Banks and Nurse McIntosh. "I suppose we had better start the new plan for the wards," Mary said. "If we're going to lose access to the hall."

                "Oh, that's what I needed to speak to you about," Bert remembered suddenly.

                "Did you have something in mind?"

                "No, actually, I managed to speak to the Head Master. He said, considering the children were victims of war crimes, and the hall is, after all, a children's facility, he has permitted us to continue using it as such."

                "That's wonderful, Bert."

                "I also received a wire from the War Office. They have agreed to let me keep Michael on, as an apprentice."

                Mary Poppins beamed. "That's fantastic, Bert! Oh! That is simply wonderful!"

                He grinned. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier!"

                Without thinking, she leapt onto him, throwing her arms around him. Shocked, Bert stood frozen, unable to move, feeling Mary's warm form against him, her face resting against his shoulder. Slowly, he put his arms around her, his fingertips touching the thick fabric of her coat, still damp with snow. Somewhere in the city, a bell tolled. It was midnight.

                "Merry Christmas Mary," Bert whispered.

                Mary sniffed, thinking the cold had come back to her. But then she felt her eyes prickle with tears.

                "Merry Christmas Bert."

 

…

 

Jane stayed with the children that night, having told Nurse McIntosh to go get a proper rest. Besides, she had planned a little something for the children which she wanted to prepare. Once they were all asleep, she reached into her apron and pulled out a small bundle of paper cards. Cards she had fashioned herself and written over the past week. She knew it wasn’t much, but perhaps it would be something to help the children in their lonely Christmas. She had been surprised that not one child had asked her about Father Christmas. The war had sobered everyone up, even the children.

                But when Christmas morning came, even Jane awake to be surprised. Rather than rising before the children (who had slept so easily, not caring about what would not be Christmas), she had been shaken awake by one of the young boys. “Nurse Banks! Was it you? However did you manage it?”

                “Sorry?” Jane asked, rubbing her eyes as she rose from the armchair. She placed a hand to her head and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Eight o’clock! Goodness! How had she slept that much?

                “Nurse Banks do tell! Where did it all come from?”

                Oh of course, the cards. “Oh it was really no trouble,” she told him, unable to accept the compliment properly for her embarrassment at having been caught asleep.

                “No trouble? Nurse McIntosh says you can’t find a scrap in England!”

                “Scrap? What are you talking about?”

                She opened her eyes properly and took in the room before her. Each individual child sat on their beds, their eyes wide with excitement at what they had discovered under their pillows and at the foot of their beds when they had awoken.

                Sweets. Everywhere.

                Jane rose from her armchair and looked at the spectacle. The bedspreads, the floorboards, the windowsills were covered in the greatest assortment of sweets. Everything from lollipops to fudge, gumdrops, toffees and mints. Jane didn't believe what she was seeing. She watched the children as they ran between the bedposts, chasing each other, swapping sweets, throwing them about, their faces beaming. And their laughter, such laughter. She had not heard laughter like that since before the war.

                A sudden nurse instinct snapped and she arose and came to the children, informing them that yes, they may eat some of the sweets, but to be cautious so they would not fall ill. She herself unwrapped a toffee and tasted it. To her utmost surprise, not only was it not diluted in any way, but it tasted richer and sweeter than anything she had ever tasted in her youth. She quickly unwrapped another, before reminding herself to heed to her own advice.

                Nurse McIntosh entered at that moment and observed the spectacle. She quickly looked at Jane (who immediately realised how foolish she must look sitting with the children, eating sweets), who beckoned her over.

                "Where did all of this come from?" She asked hastily. "Was it you?"

                "It was Father Christmas!" One child screamed happily. "He found us!"

                "Where ever did you find all this?" she asked, much more softly so the children would not hear her.

                Jane pulled her aside. "I will tell you honestly I haven't the faintest idea where any of it came from."

                "But surely?"

                "I'm as shocked as you are," she told her earnestly. "I made the children cards, so they would at least receive something. But I am at an utter loss with regards to all of this."

                "But, where? How?"

                Jane just shook her head. "I have no idea."


	18. Chapter 18

Michael awoke early Christmas morning in his bed. It was still reasonably dark outside; they had definitely reached the peak of winter. A soft red glow was just emerging behind the clouds and rooftops, gently lighting the mound of snow now sitting on the windowsill. Michael rose, coming to the window and touching the frosted glass. Through the panes he could just see into the street below, a number of vans bringing in more soldiers from France; even on Christmas.

                Michael pulled on the white coat that he wore when accompanying Bert in the wards. It was several sizes too big, but all the doctors rolled up their sleeves whilst working anyway. Michael had often seen whole bundles of them go out laundered; piles of white fabric soiled deep in blood. All the while, Michael's own coat rarely met a spot of spilt tea. It frustrated him. He often thought how much he'd rather not wear the coat if he wasn't going to look the part. Wearing it for a day, then hanging it back up, still clean, it felt more like a costume than the uniform it was.

                When Bert left the night before to join the others at St Paul's, Michael had seen fit to rise to the occasion. It had been a quiet night, but he'd seized the opportunity to do some proper work. After the incident with Jock, Michael was determined to prove himself. The last thing he wanted was to be sent off to boarding school, leaving Jane behind.

                He couldn't stop thinking about Jock, what had become of him. He couldn't help but think how very nearly that could have been himself. He remembered the countless conversations he'd had with Bert, whilst watching him perform different procedures on patients. Despite Bert's concerns that he should return to school, Michael was sure that if he had, he would have definitely run off to enlist; like so many of the boys at the schools round the country.

                He grabbed his medical kit, checking its supplies, before quickly hurrying downstairs to find Bert. He had forgotten entirely that it was Christmas, until he crossed the main entrance hall where his sister came running in from outside.

                "Jane?"

                "Michael! Merry Christmas! Look!" She held out her hands which he saw were filled with brightly coloured sweets.

                "What's this?"

                "They appeared! This morning?"

                "What? Where?"

                She looked around, before coming closer. "We don't know!" she whispered. "But I think I may have a hunch."

                She pressed a few of them into his hands. Michael looked at them startled.

                "What do you mean you have a hunch?" he asked, turning them over.

                Jane huffed. "Oh Michael, must you be so tiresome?"

                "No, I just—" he looked toward the ward with the numerous new patients waiting for him. "I can't talk just now, Bert and I have a lot to get through‒"

                "It's okay." Jane knew all too well how it was.

                "I do have some reading to do later," Michael offered. "I'll be in the upstairs kitchen."

                "I break at eight."

                "I'll see you there."

                Jane kissed his cheek bidding another "Merry Christmas" before dashing upstairs to the other wards. Michael looked down at the sweets in his palm, studying their vibrant colours. A cry echoed from one of the wards and he quickly shoved them in his pocket and went straight to find Bert.

 

...

 

Christmas Day had seen a mad rush of soldiers from the clearing stations at the front. They were quickly running out of beds and there were many soldiers made to sit on chairs, their old bandages from the clearing stations now soiled with blood, demanding attention. Even on Christmas Day they had their work cut out for them. Michael did his best to observe every detail of what Bert was doing; every procedure for every different condition. How to treat trench foot and gangrene on amputated limbs; how to clean bloody scalps, devoured by lice. Bullet wounds, splintered limbs, everything had a particular method.

                Michael had worked difficult shifts before, but this was the first time he had worked so long without a proper break. Even when it began to ease up around six, he still wasn't able to leave the wards for long—just five minutes to visit the lavatory. He hadn't eaten since breakfast.

                "How are you feeling?"

                Normally when staff were asked this, it was because their performance in their roles was slipping, which could potentially be dangerous for patients. But the way Bert had said it, Michael was surprised to find he was actually just making small talk.

                "I'll live," said Michael honestly.

                "Good, I can't let you go just yet."

                Bert looked at their patient's arm—a bullet wound which had grown heavily infected. Without needing to be asked, Michael began preparing a syringe with the right substance.

                "You know Michael," Bert said. "If you truly want to be a doctor you're going to have to go back to school."

                "I can go back once the war's over."

                "And when do you expect that to be?"

                Michael sighed; they'd had this conversation before. "It doesn't matter. I'm here now, doing some real work. Besides, most boys my age are at the front."

                Bert made a gesture and Michael handed him the syringe. Bert pressed its needle into the soldier's arm, watching its chamber slowly empty of liquid.

                "At least I'm doing my bit, the _right_ way, right?"

                Bert removed the syringe and wiped the patch of skin. He placed on the tray between them, before turning to Michael. "Why do you care so much about 'doing your bit?'"

                "I'm sorry?"

                "This war. Why does it matter so much to you? Why is it so great a cause?"

                Michael was startled by the question. The war had consumed all of their lives, had become their reality. No one had stopped to think about _why_ it was happening.

                "Look at these men, Michael. _Then_ tell me it's all worth it."

                "How can you say that?" Michael shot. "After the sacrifices they've made?"

                "I acknowledge and respect their sacrifices and I am well aware of my own. But what are we actually fighting for?"

                "We're fighting the Germans."

                "Why?"

                "Because..." Michael thought about it for a moment, but never came to an answer.

                "You should go back to school Michael, and soon."

                Seeing Michael's face, he added, "I know you don't want to leave your sister, but you can't waste your youth here. You're bright, you'll make an excellent doctor, _one day_."

                "But these men need help _now_ ," Michael said adamantly. "Whatever the cause, they need my help."

                Bert placed a finger beneath the patient's jaw. Satisfied, he gathered up his medical kit and lead Michael to their next patient.

                "I never told you I attended to prisoners of war, at the front."

                Michael shook his head.

                "Well no one else was willing to do it. I was also one of the few who knew a little German."

                "Why did you bother?"

                Bert smiled. "Well the army was hoping to smuggle information out of them. But from what you've just told me, I can tell that you now know what it's like?"

                "What what's like?"

                "When you see someone suffering. You can't stand by and do nothing."

                Michael thought suddenly of Jock. "No, you can't."

 

...

 

It wasn't until nine that Michael finally managed to go off duty. He hung up his coat and suddenly noticed a slight bulge in the pockets. It was the sweets Jane had given him this morning. He took them out again and studied them. Then, unwrapping one of them, he put it into his mouth, expecting some mildly sweet, diluted substance. But as the toffee touched his tongue, its thick taste syruped through his mouth, more strongly than anything he could remember. This wasn't an ordinary sweet. Nothing like the sweets from before the war, or even his childhood.

                Remembering his reading, he grabbed his books and came into the upstairs staff room. Jane wasn't there; she was likely working overtime as well. Having eaten nothing all day, he finally prepared himself a sandwich; but strangely the toffee seemed to have ridden him of all hunger.

                He looked at the pile of books waiting for him. Bert didn't intend for him to get through all of it, but Michael was determined to prove otherwise. It was difficult and draining, reading just after a shift, but he couldn't help but notice how much more he understood when he read up on a procedure immediately after he had watched Bert perform it. He thought of his school, out in Kent, of his school mates dissecting frogs and mice. How juvenile it all seemed now.

                The clock showed half past nine when Jane finally came in, her hair falling from beneath her cap and her face flushed and red.

                "Four cases of gangrene in that last hour, I thought I'd never get out of there." She slipped her cap from her head and began unpinning her hair. "God if anyone saw me like this!"

                "So you haven't been in the children's ward today?"

                "Nurse McIntosh took over, why?"

                Michael pulled out the remaining sweets she had given him that morning. Jane stopped fixing her hair, looking at the bundle.

                "Where on earth would someone get these."

                "Exactly what I thought when I found them," Jane smiled. "Rations were reduced again at the start of the month. And they're not the sort of thing that's on the black market."

                "Have you tried them," Michael asked.

                Jane smiled guiltily. "Perhaps more than my fair share."

                "They're not normal sweets. I mean, it's like—"

                "Nothing you've ever tasted before?"

                "Not even before the war. Not even from when we were kids."

                Jane nodded knowingly.

                "Where could they have come from?"

                Looking quickly to the door, Jane came to sit by him. "You haven't any idea?"

                Michael thought for a moment, before realising what she meant.

                "You don't think—?"

                "It could only be."

                "You told me it was all gone, that she... lost it or something."

                "She did but..." Jane looked round again, before continuing. "I was talking with her the other day, in her office. I saw her umbrella, with the parrot head."

                "She's always had that—"

                "It winked at me."

                Michael stared.

                "I'm not making this up. I know what I saw."

                "I believe you."

                They were silent for a moment, letting it all sink in. There was a soft echo of doctors conversing in the hall; so when Michael spoke again, he dropped his voice. "What would cause it—"

                "She said the war was what damaged it, but somehow I don't believe her."

                "What do you mean?"

                "I think it's more than that, we've all been affected in some way. But she seems really, I don't know, not herself." Jane leaned in closer, her voice now barely a whisper. " The children for instance. She never comes out to that ward, and not because she's busy. It's almost like she feels uncomfortable around them. It's so strange; she was a nanny for so long."

                "So what's changed now?" Michael asked. "If all this _is_ because of her."

                "What else would it be, Michael?"

                A doctor came in suddenly and Jane and Michael fell silent. The doctor nodded to them and Jane and Michael expected him to start making tea or something. But seeing the books on the table, the doctor came to Michael and asked if he'd seen any others lying about. When Michael answered in the negative, he left to look elsewhere.

                "Who knows about the sweets?" Michael asked hastily.

                "Just us, Nurse McIntosh, the children—" Jane looked quickly at her brother. "Did you mention it to Bert at all?"

                "No, we had patients to look after."

                Jane nodded quietly, when her eyes suddenly widened as she realised something. " _Bert._ "

                "Sorry?"

                "Maybe it's... I'm not sure Michael, but I think I may be onto something."

                A bell tolled somewhere in the city. It was eleven.

                "I'd better go to bed," Jane said quickly. "I doubt tomorrow will be any easier than today was." She glanced at Michael's pile of reading adding, "Don't you stay up too late either."

                "I'll try."

                She smiled and added kindly, "They do make you look very intelligent though."

                "I don't understand them as well as I should like," Michael laughed.

                "Still," Jane said. "I was worried about you not going back to school, but I was wrong. You're doing very well for yourself." She placed a hand on his arm. "I'm proud of you, and I know Father would be too."

                "Thank you," he replied. Then, before he could stop himself, added. "I miss him."

                "Me too Michael," Jane replied quietly. "Which is why you were right. We need to stay together."


End file.
